by J. Lee Butts
"Well, I hate to tell you this, sir, but I've never laid eyes on you. Have not the slightest intention of going anywhere with a stranger just 'cause he says he's a lawman from some pissant place in South Texas. Bartender, have you ever seen this man before?"
Couldn't believe it. Feisty bartender gave Bankston a thorough looking over and said, "Nope. Cain't say as I have."
Glanced back into the mirror. Bankston pointed a stubby finger at me and snapped, "Look, boy, I ain't got time for this. I know you're armed. Put your pistol on the bar and step back." He pulled his coattail away from the big Remington on his hip. "Don't want to kill you. But I will, if I have to."
Most of the drunks in attendance that morning had moved to a corner as far away from the rapidly festering disagreement as they could. Bartender took several steps in their direction, but seemed intent on helping me out. He waved a towel at Bankston and said, "Who the hell are you, mister? And why are you pestering this young gentleman?"
Bankston yelped, "He ain't no gentleman. Ain't even a man yet. Guess you're how old now, Eli? Seventeen, maybe eighteen, if memory serves."
'Course I looked a damn sight older. Didn't notice it till I got to studying on my image in the Capitol's looking glass. One thing them Hickersons did that I liked was eat well. Two years of Miss Estel's cooking, and working like a field hand in her old man's hayloft, had filled me out with a lot of heavy muscle. Done started me a mustache, too. Charlotte said it made me look distinguished. And she liked it for other reasons as well.
Still didn't turn around when I said, "Think you've made a mistake, sir. My name's Henry Moon. Reside over near Tyler. Buy and sell horses for a living. Ain't never been no place named La Honda."
"That's horseshit, Eli. You killed Mr. Cumby, and you're going back for trial and hanging by God. Make up your mind to it, boy." That's when I saw a reflected right hand start for his pistol.
Tom Bankston had no idea what I'd turned into over the more than three weeks he'd been chasing me. Twirled around and had both my weapons up so fast, the remaining poker players between me and him barely had time to get out of the way. Sweet Jesus, glorious thunderation commenced.
I sprayed a curtain of deafening gunfire that scared the bejabbers out of La Honda's marshal and everyone else in the place. Hot lead chewed through the door frame, blasted holes in the front window, and gouged valleys in everything from tabletops to slow-moving sombreros. Hell, it was fast and furious, but horribly inaccurate. Emptied both pistols. Failed to hit Bankston with a damned one of them, near as I could tell.
By the time my single-minded, badge-wearing shadow could figure out what had transpired, I had ducked my head and darted out the back door behind a curtain of black-powder smoke that resembled a fog bank floating low over the Brazos on a summer morning. Ran all the way around the building, jumped on the gray, and hightailed it away from there.
Headed straight for the Reverend Hatcher's parsonage. Way I had it figured, wouldn't be anyone looking for me in a local preacher's home. Rode around the newly whitewashed house several times before I picked a nice spot in the shade to hide my horse.
Marched up to the door and knocked. Did my best imitation of a young suitor when Millicent's mother answered. Held my hat over the pistol on my hip. Tried my level best to look humble and contrite.
"Yes. What can I do for you, young man?"
"Mrs. Hatcher, do you remember me? I'm Eli Gault. Visited with you and your family some years back when my father, the Reverend Joshua Gault, conducted a week's worth of soul-saving services down by the river. You had us over for supper on a number of occasions. Reverend Hatcher told Pa it was the most successful week's endeavor at soul-saving he'd seen since beginning his ministry."
My efforts at flattery were not without purpose. An empty belly gnawed at the buckle on my pistol belt and rumbled loudly with the least provocation. Tom Bankston had arrived before I'd managed to order anything to eat at the Capitol Saloon. So, my hunger had not abated in the least, and the very sturdy Mrs. Hatcher could easily boast of being one of McLennan County's finest cooks.
She flashed a broad white-toothed smile, opened the screen door, grabbed me by the arm, and pulled me inside. "You come right in here and have a seat, Eli Gault. I've thought of you and your father often over the past few years. Wondered why the two of you hadn't made the circuit and visited with us lately." I knew she'd lead me to her favorite spot in the house—the kitchen table. Woman spent a lot more time sampling her own cooking than she did feeding her imperially thin husband and deliciously buxom daughter.
Dropped my hat on the floor and covered my face with trembling hands. Let out an astonishingly convincing sob and said, "Well, Mrs. Hatcher, one of the reasons I stopped by today was to inform you of my father's foul and unnatural murder a number of years ago near the tiny community of La Honda. Some despicable villain stole into our wagon, slew my father with a shovel, and robbed him of our entire fortune." Tears welled up and flowed freely. I wept like a week-old baby in need of feeding.
Good woman gathered me out of that chair, pressed my face to her ample bosom, and patted my hair whilst I did an impressive bit of acting as the aggrieved child. "There, there, my dear boy. You're in the company of good friends. People who love and will care for you. There's no need to trouble yourself now. Let your heart not be troubled, my son."
'Bout then, Millicent strolled in from her upstairs room and said, "Why, Mother, what in the wide world is going on?"
Mrs. Hatcher led my boo-hooing ass over to her daughter and said, "Millie, you remember young Eli Gault, don't you?"
Snatched a bandanna from the pocket of my coat. Wiped the tears away and held my trembling hand out for the girl. Hell, she had to take it. I didn't give her any choice.
At first, Millicent acted like she didn't recognize me at all, but when I said, "Why, you must recall the time we spent in your swing in the backyard, Miss Hatcher," stars lit up in that gal's eyes. She smiled, bit her lip in an effort to keep from squealing with joy, I'm sure.
She did a little curtsy and said, "Why, yes, I do remember Mr. Gault, Mother. Are you here with your father, Eli?"
Went into my boo-hoo routine again. Startled Millicent. Her mother slapped an ample arm around my heaving shoulders and said, "Don't be so insensitive, girl. The Reverend Gault was murdered by a band of thieving killers down near La Honda. Young Eli obviously hasn't recovered from the foul deed as yet. Our Christian duty demands we see to his speedy recovery from this horrid event. Now, you take a seat, Eli. I've got a nice roast beef ready, and can see you're in need of a good meal. Nothing like meat and potatoes to cure what ails you."
Woman fed me till I almost burst. Might as well have used a shovel. She kept food coming to the table till I couldn't eat no more. 'Bout the time I finished, Millicent, who'd been sitting in the chair across the table intently staring at me, said, "My, my, Eli, why are you carrying so many pistols."
Hell, I'd meant to take them off before I came in, but was in such a hurry, the chore had slipped my sustenance-starved mind. "The heartless skunks what kilt my father have threatened to do me in as well. My testimony sent them to prison. But they broke out recently. I've been moving about ever since in an effort to stay alive. Have no doubt them murderers will find me eventually. Revenge for any real, or perceived, slight is a potent thing. The world's a dangerous place, ladies. A man does what he has to do, even if that means lugging heavy pieces of iron around all the time."
Mrs. Hatcher looked horrified. Good woman had been so intent on feeding me, she hadn't bothered to see the real Eli Gault. She fanned her face and said, "Why, we've never allowed guns in our house, Eli. Perhaps you'd best leave them outside while you're here. I'm certain the Reverend Hatcher wouldn't approve."
"Gonna be here long, Eli?" Millicent grinned and fiddled with the front of her dress. "Or do you expect those badmen to appear at just any moment?"
Then it came back to me in quick flashes of heated memory. That girl always was
full of devilment. Her inflammatory questions were meant to incite her dithering mother. It worked. "Do not trouble yourselves, ladies. I'll take them outside right now, Mrs. Hatcher."
Headed for the gray with Millicent trailing me like a bloodhound on track. "What are you trying to pull, Eli Gault? I know you're up to no good. Could see it coming when you were here during the revivals. Knew back then you were destined for a bad end."
Shoved the pistols into my bedroll and war bag. When I turned around, Millicent pressed her ample young body against mine like a visiting circus poster glued to a wood fence. Squirmed against my shirtfront till I thought I'd explode. Stuck her tongue in my mouth, then backed away a bit and said, "Don't you remember the good times we had out behind your daddy's tent?"
Pulled her close again. "Of course I remember, Millie. Why do you think I'm here? Men are on my trail, and may be out to kill me. Wanted to visit the most beautiful girl in Texas 'fore I died."
She batted emerald eyes at me and whispered, "Why, Eli, aren't you sweet. Seems you've learned a little about how to better treat girls since your last visit to Waco. As I remember, all you had on your mind behind the Reverend's traveling tent was how fast you could separate me from my underthings."
"Well, I was some younger then. My behavior in such delicate matters has much improved." I was lying like a yeller dog, of course. Charlotte Hickerson had lighted the wick to my lust and the flame burned unabated. The lovely Millicent had no way of knowing my plans yet, but if it proved possible to do what she had already accused me of, I would indulge the growing ache in my smoldering groin for her at the earliest possible instant. Perhaps she read the true feelings hidden in my unrepentant heart, because a quivering smile bled into a thin-lipped scowl for about a second, before she turned and flounced back into the house.
The Reverend Hatcher didn't make an appearance until almost dusk. His countryside circuit of prayer vigils for the lost, ill, and dying took longer than either he or his missus had expected. He heartily shook my hand, and almost wept when I told him of my father's bloody departure from this world at the hands of murderous villains.
Threw a muscular arm around my shoulders, pulled me to my knees, and prayed for almost ten minutes. Finally, he stood and said, "Most appalling, my son. Most appalling. I've known your father for almost twenty year. First time he came through Waco for a visit was back during the War. August or September as I recall. We'd just learned of Vicksburg's fall and the antidraft riots in New York City. Terrible times. His poor wife had passed, bless her soul. Joshua came to town with his four-year-old son. Guess that should make you about eighteen or nineteen now. Don't know why, but the closeness of ages between you and Millie had escaped my memory."
"He never mentioned a prior visit, sir," I said.
"Called on us a second time as well. War had ended a few months before. The hell of Yankee Reconstruction was well under way. Doubt you would remember, but you and Josh stayed here with us for almost six months. We took turns preaching in my church. And when he went out on the evangelism trail, a stop here in our beautiful town took place about every other year. My congregation felt blessed by his close relationship with God."
His revelation came as something of a minor shock. All I'd ever known of the Reverend Hatcher involved a few hazy, barely remembered visits to conduct one of Pa's revivals over the years. Hadn't realized we'd been there so often. Our last visit was the most prominent in my mind. Never forgot the childish infatuation brought on by his beautiful daughter's boldly flirtatious behavior. Got to thinking about my iniquitous intentions concerning Millicent and, for at least five seconds, felt right bad that I'd come up with such low-life purposes. Thank God, those feelings didn't last long.
4
"He's deader'n the handle on a pitchfork."
Being as how I'd arrived on a Wednesday night, my presence was required at the Reverend's weekly prayer meeting. His church was located within walking distance of the parsonage. Congregation gathered me in with open arms. They wept, prayed, and fired the evening's service with loud, heartfelt renditions of all the old hymns. Gave me a warm, homey feeling I'd not had at any time before. Made me feel almost like I'd been there all my life.
Afterward, the Reverend showed me to their nicely done-up guesthouse. The ten-by-ten room was located midway between the Hatchers' home and their barn. I was quite surprised by the dwelling's well-appointed interior. "Why, this is much cozier than sleeping on the ground or under a wagon, sir."
"My son, you are welcome to stay as long as you wish. Please consider yourself one of the family. What I have is yours."
Now, I must tell you in all sincerity that I tried my level best to behave during my stay with those fine folks. Even made a serious attempt to conduct myself with righteous propriety when around Millicent. And for about three weeks managed to pull it off. But the siren call of sinful deeds kept whispering in my ear, drawing me out of my bed at night to roam the streets and alleys of Waco's rougher areas.
Got to the point where I couldn't wait for night to fall so I could rogue around the saloons, gambling joints, and bars in search of whiskey, poker, and eager women. Over the years, I have come to the belief that such is the fate of young men who do not taste of the world's forbidden fruit until they are almost grown. Then, most can't seem to get enough of anything considered wicked, aberrant, or immoral.
Learned by sheer accident that I had a hidden and untapped talent for poker and other games of chance. Don't have the slightest idea where such an iniquitous flair came from. Pa never gambled. Guess that was about the only sin he didn't indulge in. I'd not so much as picked up a pack of the devil's pasteboards till I walked into the Mustang Saloon one night after sneaking out of bed.
Watched some fellers play poker for about an hour. Sat down with the money I'd liberated from Elroy Cumby's tin box and, before the night ended, tripled my ill-gotten fortune. Hell, winning large piles of other people's money was damn near as much fun as gettin' nekkid with Charlotte. Not quite, but almost.
Ran upon a feller named Diamond Jim Grady one night during my after-dark roguing around. Gambler took a shine to me. Imperially slim and dressed like a dandy of the first order, Jim was a proud son of Mississippi. Physically, he looked like a yard rake clothed in fine silk waistcoats and lace shirtfronts. A smooth baritone voice oozed with the deep Southern sounds of mint juleps served on vast colonnaded porches, fronted with magnolia trees and honeysuckle.
Being the third son in a family of six boys, he realized early on that his chances of inheriting the plantation were pretty damned poor. Not long after his fifteenth birthday passed, Jim hit the trail west, and never looked back.
More than once, he said, "My father doted on Brother Isaac, his firstborn. Boy could do no wrong as far as Pa was concerned. I hated him, and had to get away from Columbus before committing foul and unnatural murder of the Cain and Abel variety."
For reasons unknown, Diamond Jim decided his mission in life was to teach me all he knew about poker. More specifically, all the methods a man might employ to cheat at the game. He showed me how to shave cards with his deluxe ivory-handled card trimmer, and the way to round the corners of selected pasteboards with a similar machine made especially for that particular job.
One night, he handed me a pair of blue-tinted spectacles and said, "Put these on and look at the backs of this deck." Son of a bitch, if those cards weren't marked plain as day in some kind of ink you could only see with his colored goggles. But he warned me not to use the method often, and only when in the company of amateurs.
"Professional gamblers have used this trick for some years now. They'll catch you right quick."
Ole Diamond Jim taught me how to deal seconds, and quick-cut a deck so all the cards stayed exactly where I wanted them. He spent a whole night on how to use just about anything that would reflect an image as a shiner, so I could read the cards as I shuffled and dealt.
My gambler pal gifted me with one hell of an education. Suppose it
would have continued if he hadn't got rudely shot to death one night when an equally talented cheat caught him using a shaved deck. Whole enterprise probably wouldn't have amounted to much, but Jim had just about cleaned out everyone at the table over four days of intense poker before a well-known local cardsharp, who made his home in Waco and called himself Rattlesnake McKord, took exception to looming impoverishment.
Personally, didn't need but a few weeks of concentrated play before I learned all about another of poker's nastier negatives that could also get you shot graveyard dead. Bad enough to get caught cheating, but some bastards just hate like hell to lose whether they're being swindled or not. Silly idiots usually can't play worth a damn, but don't seem to know it. Sons of bitches think there ain't nobody on the planet has their skill or knowledge of the game at hand. First feller I had a violent run-in with over my newfound skills was a one-eyed, jug-headed jackass named Davis Meckler.
Two weeks after Jim bit the dust, a full table had been going at it for about three hours when I threw down a ten-high straight and raked in a huge pile of loot. Meckler grabbed at my hand and said, "Goddammit, how many pots does that make for you tonight, boy? Ain't never played poker with anybody that wins the way you do. Must be somethin' going on here as I cain't see."
Leaned back in my chair and eased a hand toward my belly gun. I'd only worked at the gambling trade for a few weeks, but knew it's a deadly business when you start accusing a man of cheating.
I'd also discovered, during the course of my saloon crawls, that there's just nothing like the Bible and Shakespeare for a vocabulary that can confuse hell out of a brush-popping idiot. All it took was a little education and a lot of nerve to really piss one of them off. So I said, "Why, Davis, your uncensored harangue seems tinted with an accusatory ring. Whatever are you implying?"
His head tilted to one side like a dog engrossed in a futile attempt to understand mathematics. "What the hell, are you a-tryin' to insult me, boy? By God, pissants like you should be right careful what they say to a real man." The word man stretched out slow, like he really meant to say, "Far as I'm concerned, you're nothing more'n a scabrous pile of something sticky on my boot sole."
