by J. Lee Butts
Hell to Pay
The Life and Violent
Times of Eli Gault
J. Lee Butts
Beyond the Page
Publishing
Hell to Pay
J. Lee Butts
Beyond the Page Books are published by
Beyond the Page Publishing
www.beyondthepagepub.com
Copyright © 2009,2014 by J. Lee Butts.
ISBN: 978-1-937349-93-6
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The Final Cut
Now, I must admit to feeling right bad about killing ole man Cumby. Hadn't planned it, didn't expect it, and was shocked right to my boot soles when I realized what I'd gone and done. But it's hard to hold back when someone comes at you with an ax. Hell, if I hadn't shot him, that old man would probably have chopped me up like a Sunday fryer.
Bent over his still-warm body and said, "Why'd you do that? Hell, I didn't have any intentions to kill anybody. Stupid old bastard. You've done sealed my fate, sure as Lincoln freed the slaves. God Almighty, but it takes a damned stupid son of a bitch to bring an ax to a pistol fight."
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Epilogue
1
Uvalde, Texas, 1882
"Yes, brothers and sisters, there is a Hell."
Way I've got it figured, most decent, respectable people will likely give little credence to the story of how I now find myself in such a sorry state. Little doubt about it, there's gonna be hell to pay for my manifest and bloody sins. Truth be told, I blame my father, the Reverend Joshua Gault—a fire-breathing evangelist who traveled the Texas countryside in a ramshackle covered wagon preaching the Gospel—for the entire ugly mess that has been my life.
Pa's torturous path to false righteousness proved an impossible one for an irredeemable sinner such as me. Upon his head I lay all the blood I've spilled, all the grief I've caused, all my murders. You can find my butchery buried in the subtext of his sermons, in the nightly beatings he administered upon my person, and carved on a wicked heart hidden behind the collar of a man of the cloth—a man possessed by the spirit of a most vengeful God.
My mother gave up the twisted journey down Pa's long and narrow road to salvation two years after presenting me to an unsuspecting world—in the Year of Our Lord 1862. As the only child of their fractious and destructive union, I endured a virtual hell on earth during the fifteen years that followed that poor woman's tragic passing.
Little doubt has ever existed in my mind, or heart, that the evil old bastard blamed me for my mother's unfortunate demise. According to the Reverend, hers was the first blood I spilled. Mighty hard for a child to bear the burden of such an accusation. If I showed signs of forgetting his feelings on the subject, thrashings that ofttimes brought me near death served as the falsely sanctified redeemer's gentle reminders of his view on the matter.
I hereby publicly confess to all my past sins and beg the Lord's forgiveness, but swear upon the altar of the real Jehovah that the killing I now face final judgment for is one I did not commit. At worst, my part in the man's death was no more than a simple case of self-defense.
My earliest, and most dreadful, memories always return to my father. I grew nigh to manhood being forced to sit on the "amen" pew while he delivered his hellfire-and-brimstone sermons to crowds of the ignorant but faithful. Those poor dirt-digging goobers gathered in flimsy church buildings, in cornfields, on dirt roads and byways all over the Great Lone Star State just to hear the crazed son of a bitch rant and rave. Have to give him his due, though. Pa was good at the soul saving trade and possessed an uncommon skill as an orator and consummate actor.
We dragged an ancient piece of oak podium he'd stolen from an office building in Dallas—on my thirteenth birthday no less—all over hell and gone so he'd have something to hang on to during his sermons. He'd get all worked up and grab the top of that battered chunk of wood like an exhausted swimmer in the arms of a drowning lover headed for the bottom. You couldn't have pried his clawlike fingers loose with a crowbar. Rivers of sweat streamed down a dreadful face, twisted with rage and false concern. His stern gaze would sweep over all those anxious for the Lord's saving blessings, like waves during ole Noah's little rainstorm.
Sometimes, he fingered at pages in The Book, or perhaps read a fearsome passage from Revelations. Then the crazy bastard would launch into an act I must have seen a thousand times over the years. Ole Josh would start off slow, like a winded racehorse, and build the tease to a feverish, screeching pitch.
"Yes, brothers and sisters, there is a Hell." That particular piece of information seemed of unending interest to those lacking anything in the way of worldly sophistication.
"Amen, Brother Gault." The sweat-stained and dirty-finger nailed shouted their faith in fervent response.
"Those not saved by the blood will certainly see that horrid place 'where the worm never dies, but the fire is quenched not.' Where Satan awaits your arrival and revels in the prospect of hearing your eternal screams for mercy."
"Amen. Lead us home, sweet Jesus."
"Save us, Reverend Gault." The reaction from his overheated audience bordered on thunderous.
A subtle urgency usually crept into his voice at this point. "Oh, ye dam-ned sinners, the day will come when you stand in judgment before the Golden Book of the Lamb."
"Take us, Lord."
"Bless us, Jesus."
"Lord God above." The reaction was louder than before.
"An angel's sacred finger will trace the gilded lines till he finds your name. His beatific smile will vanish as he asks a single question, brothers and sisters, Are you saved?'"
"Oh sweet, merciful Father."
"Deliver us, Jesus."
"Lead on, Brother Gault. Lead on." His entire faithful congregation now bordered on hysteria.
He'd oblige by aggressively shaking an accusatory finger in each and every face. Then he'd screech, "And you'll be forced to answer that saintly Being with a resounding, 'No. I am not.' At that very moment, dear sinner, you'll realize your immortal soul i
s doomed, damned to the squirming, fiery pit for time without end."
"Merciful heavens," shrieked his terrified audiences.
"Deliver us from the fiery pit, Reverend."
Pa knew he had them in the palm of his hand, so he'd really start bearing down on the poor bastards. "You have to save yourselves." Up went the Bible, and he whacked the podium with it. Hard-fisted rap sounded like a pistol shot. Womenfolk in the choir and front row sometimes fainted.
"If you truly believe, stand up. Come down the aisle. Humbly kneel before God's chosen messenger and publicly demonstrate to this gathering the sincerity of your faith."
Whack went his Bible against the podium top. Second time sounded like thunder on Judgment Day. His bony, shuddering finger waved in their horrified faces.
"Confess your sins before Almighty God and this company. No matter how rancid and disgusting you may think your immortal soul has become during a lifetime of transgressions against the Word, there's still time to avoid the fires of perdition."
My God, people panicked by the prospect of damnation fought each other to make it down the aisle first. "Lead me back to the flock, Preacher. I've lied. I've cheated, stole from my friends, and consumed alcoholic spirits."
"Oh, sweet merciful God, I've fornicated with my neighbor's wife," some squealed.
That last one usually started a fistfight after the services. Have to admit, I used to love to hear them fornicators confess. Knew we'd see a little extra in the way of entertainment that night. Almost had a killing one evening when a pissed-off husband went at one of the fornicators with an ax. But the poor angry cuckold only managed to separate the malefactor from a few of his fingers and toes. Scene was still mighty bloody, decorated with body parts, and loads of fun to watch.
If the response from the congregation didn't match Pa's covetous and fevered expectations, he'd go damn near frantic. See, he realized the amount in the offering plates was heavily influenced by the number of folks heading up the aisle for his version of salvation. Evil skunk had to save a bunch of souls if he wanted to make any money.
"Once you've admitted before God's appointed angel that you've never been washed in the blood of the Lamb, it's too late. The yawning pit of everlasting damnation will open before your very feet." Pa was preaching so fast, sometimes I couldn't even follow him.
He'd let that last part sit on them poor sinners' hearts for a second or so, and then launch off again. "Sulfurous steam rising from the burning bodies of Hell's most wretched will befoul your nostrils. The greasy, filth-covered tentacles of Satan's imps will slither up your quaking legs. Gather your shrieking soul into the Fiend's front parlor. You pitiable wretches can look forward to being nothing more than sport for impish torture—forevermore. Is that what you want, brethren?" At that point, he had reached a screech level that usually caused me to cover my ears. Always wondered how the man's throat could stand such punishment.
God in Heaven, sometimes the stampede got damn near unbelievable. Once, in a little pissant town called Ballentyne, an old man almost got stomped to death when he fell about halfway down the aisle. Concerned members of the congregation took near ten minutes to untangle the mass of people on top of the poor old goat.
Yes indeed, the Reverend Joshua Gault, loved and admired by earnest Christian folk all over Texas, laughed like hell for years after he finished his sermon the night that old man fell on his face. He'd suck up a quart of Old Overcoat, beat on the little table in our covered wagon, hoot like a strangled owl, and into the darkness of black night yelp, "Oh, my glorious God, took everything I could do to keep from laughing. Poor son of a bitch went down in the aisle like a felled tree. Had hobnailed heel marks all over his wrinkled old ass when we finally retrieved him."
When all else failed to generate the response he fully expected, Pa would get so serious, you'd of thought God was coming after everyone in the whole damned world that very minute. He'd scream, "Ye damnable sinners, you can either love Jesus and confess it to the world, or go to Hell and forever burn. Which is it going to be? Do you want eternal life or a festering, pustulated, scab-covered damnation?" If that one didn't work, for damned sure, nothing would.
Sometimes, we'd pass that plate three or four times before he got the right amount—in other words, enough for a bottle of whiskey and a night with any fallen woman who happened to be handy. If there weren't any fallen ones available, he'd often help himself to one of the lonely, more-than-willing, thunderstruck widow ladies attending his service.
Seemed to me as though whiskey and a willing woman was all he required to stay alive. Hell, I needed food and damn near starved to death at times. 'Course life with the Reverend wasn't all bad. I did get a damned fine education. My worthless father knew more about the Bible than any man I ever met, and he could quote Shakespeare like one of them stage actor fellers. Had me reading The Book and the tragedies before I'd turned ten years old.
I'll never forget the fateful night of our parting. Happened a few weeks after my seventeenth birthday. I was a big strapping kid by then. Looked like a fully growed man. Over six feet tall, like Pa, stringy-muscled and hard as a rock. Remember the event like it was yesterday.
We made a stop in the tiny village of La Honda. A full moon, pale as wicked death, big as a dinner plate, and shrouded in silver clouds, hung in a pitch-black sky. Pa had sucked up more than a few snorts of the devil's brew. I could tell early on the evening wouldn't end well for me. Never did when he went on one of his whiskey-swilling binges. Always dreaded seeing him come home with a jug in his hand.
He was one of those drunks who would be the finest feller you ever met one minute and a raving, vengeful loon the next. As he'd done hundreds of times before, the man went totally wild—his last night amongst the living.
We'd suffered through a particularly poor collection that evening. Just didn't matter one damned bit. Pa still managed to scratch up enough money for a bottle of locally brewed corn liquor. Hit that jug pretty hard. Must have consumed damned near all of it in less than an hour. He got drunker than Cooter Brown. Lit into me with his belt a damn sight earlier than usual. Thought he'd beat me slap to death. That whipping was the worst he ever put on me.
About the tenth time his brass buckle bounced off my spine, something inside my brain snapped like a rotten cottonwood branch. Grabbed up a shovel we sometimes used to dig our wagon out of the mud on those rare occasions when it managed to rain in South Texas. Busted him across the face with it. Blood splattered from one side of the wagon to the other. He kind of grunted, and then dropped like a piece of beefsteak on a red-hot skillet. Guess I must have cut an artery or something equally as important to staying alive. Blood spewed from his neck like water from one of them hand-pump fire wagons.
For the first time in my life, I knew exactly what the word "bloodlust" meant. Went at him like one of them demons he preached on so often. Beat on the man till my arms ached like I'd been digging graves. Finished up when the shovel handle broke, and realized I was almost ankle deep in blood and gore. Nasty business.
Carried the shovel into the woods. Dug a hole. Pushed the dirt in over the murder weapon and my saturated clothing with my bare, bloody hands. Covered the newly turned earth with all the leaves I could find. Scratched over everything with a tree limb to make it as natural- and undisturbed-looking as possible. Bathed all his blood away in a nearby creek. Walked back to the wagon nekkid as the day my mother birthed me. Put on clean clothes and headed for the La Honda town marshal's office.
Beat on that lawman's door and hollered like a wounded animal. Cried buckets of tears when I told as how I'd come back from fishing in the creek and found my poor beloved father beat to death by some foul, murdering skunk who'd stolen every penny we'd saved over the last ten years. 'Course there weren't no family fortune. Evil, Bible-thumping son of a bitch drank up ever penny we ever made. But that tiny falsehood made my tale sound better.
Lying, trickery, and a talent for acting came my way naturally. I was good at it, jus
t like my old man. Silly marshal, and everyone else in town, ate it up like bread pudding with apples and raisins.
Dim-witted local lawman's investigation found the murder exactly the way I'd described it. Them poor La Honda boobs never suspected me for a second. Mysteriously, anonymous killers have always held a certain appeal to the ignorant and ill-informed. Hell, them melon-headed tater-diggers even put out a wanted poster for any information leading to the arrest of the "unknown" murderous thieves who took the life of poor, and much beloved, Reverend Joshua Gault. Amen, brothers and sisters. Pass the plate.
2
"Eli done went and stabbed Harvey."
La Honda Ladies' Aid Society drew me under its sheltering wing. They even took up a love offering of almost two hundred dollars to offset the loss of my stolen family fortune. More money than my pa had ever managed to collect at any of his revivals. Dear, sweet, sainted ladies even arranged for me to live with a family name of Hickerson that had migrated from the smoky hills of Tennessee. Stayed with them folks for two years.
Leader of that group of concerned women, a Mrs. Crumpton, cried and prayed over me for months. Wept as she told Mrs. Hickerson, "The poor babe is left in a heartless world. Alone. Abandoned to the vagaries of cruel fate. Foully murdered father. No mother. Why, it's just a tragic situation, Estel. Can't you see your way to taking him in? Our organization is willing to help with all expenses involving his education. We'll even pay twenty dollars a month toward his room and board."
On the surface of it, those Hickersons seemed like nice people, but the whole clan had something of a mean-assed greedy streak in them, too. They let me move into a tiny room not much bigger than a closet. Entire family met me on the porch and made quite a show of taking me in.
Hickersons had a daughter—the lovely Charlotte. I didn't know much about girls. Had tried my hand with a few along the trail. But I was young and had lots to learn. My pa had always kept me under a sanctimoniously heavy thumb whole time he was breathing. Wicked wretch often preached sermons especially for my ears in the back of our wagon. Always ranted about original sin, the horrifically destructive path women could lead a man down, and how their carnal company virtually insured a good man's place in a blistering Hell. And if that didn't do the job, he'd describe, in horrifying detail, the numerous life-threatening diseases carried by any willing female. Set me to wondering why he spent so much time with 'em.
