Hell to Pay: The Life and Violent Times of Eli Gault

by J. Lee Butts

  Several of the other fellers at the table pushed their chairs back, stood, and moved to spots along the walls. "Now look what you've gone and accomplished, Davis. You've startled and alarmed our boon companions. What on earth shall we do for future camaraderie?"

  Longer I talked, the redder his face got. Looked for an instant as though his bulbous, blue-veined nose might explode. He made the mistake of leaning toward me when he said, "I've squashed a bushel basket of dung beetles tougher'n you, boy. Stompin' a soft-shelled bug like you is gonna be the easiest thing I've done all week." Then he went for the pistol jammed behind a double-row cartridge belt.

  His awkward, leaning-over-the-table position simply wasn't conducive for effective gunfighting. On top of that, he got his gun hand tangled in a pair of loose-fitting braces. By the time he could get his pistol up, I'd already fired four shots and, miracle of miracles, three of them hit him dead center.

  Two of those big chunks of lead punched all the way though the man. Sent wood splinters from his chair along with gouts of spraying gore flying across the room behind him. A heavy cloud of blue gray gun smoke hovered around us as though we sat inside an all-enveloping storm.

  Could barely see ole Davis as he glanced down at his chest, dipped a trembling finger into one of the bloody holes, and grunted, "Well, I'll just be damned." Pistol slipped from his grasp and loudly thumped when it hit the floor. His gaze came up to me for a second, before he tipped over and landed nose-first on the tabletop. Pile of chips and change splattered out around his face. Blood leaked from the corner of his mouth and stained the green felt.

  For a minute or more, the Mustang got so quiet, you could hear mice humping under the floorboards. The acrid smoke from my pistol drifted to a corner of the room as I stood and pushed my chair away from the table.

  The bartender, a right nice gentleman named Anson Byers, kind of hopped over, pressed a finger to Meckler's neck, and said, "He's deader'n the handle on a pitchfork." Then he turned to me. "I'd get the hell out of here if I was you, son. Town constabulary don't take well to barroom shootings. Last feller what done one got throwed in jail. Tried and hung within a week."

  Scraped all the money left on the table, even some stained with Meckler's blood, into my hat. Snugged the sombrero down on my head and said, "I do appreciate the advice, Mr. Byers. My apologies for the disruption of your evening's business and for any problems this might cause you in the future."

  He smiled at my youthful honesty. "Hell, this ain't the first corpse I've had sitting at one of my tables, and probably won't be the last. But like I said before, if it was me, I'd burn boot leather getting away from Waco."

  Offered him my hand. He shook it. I said, "Thank you, sir. Hope to one day come back under more pleasant circumstances."

  Last thing I heard as I headed for the Mustang's back door was, "You do that, young man."

  Fogged it for the Hatchers' guesthouse and packed quickly as I could. Threw everything I owned into my bedroll and war bag. Tiptoed down to the barn. Thought I was on the way to making a right slick getaway when I heard horses thunder up to the front of the parsonage. Soon as I threw my saddle on the gray, someone banged on the front door of the guesthouse.

  Got all cinched, loaded up, and ready to run when I heard the rumbling voice of a man I assumed belonged to the town marshal yell, "Eli Gault, we have you surrounded. Come out of the house and turn yourself in. You have one minute, sir. If you are not standing on the porch in that time, I will order my men to commence shooting."

  Peeked from the barn door and, sure enough, eight or ten men carrying an array of deadly weapons had the Reverend Hatcher's tidy little guesthouse totally encircled. Waco's lawdog proved good for his word, too. Exactly one minute after his shouted warnings, he gave a signal and the blasting commenced.

  Those dumb bastards fired everything they had as fast as anyone could humanly do it. Only God knows how many pieces of lead they poured into my abandoned hiding place. Struck me as right funny for a time. I went to laughing, and almost forgot I needed to hightail it for the big cold and lonely as quick as I could.

  Finally came back to my senses when Mrs. Hatcher ran from the back door of the main house screaming like a gut-shot panther. Poor woman still wore her nightdress, was barefooted, and appeared to have gone totally insane.

  She broke through the line of lawmen, screeching at the top of her lungs, and headed for their target's front door. Could still hear her yelling my name as I saddled up and slipped out the barn's back way. Must have been five miles out of town before they realized I'd made my escape.

  5

  "The most accomplished man killer in Texas."

  Took almost a week for me to shake loose from the posse that dogged my trail. Rode around in a big looping circle for three days. Think I finally lost them in the cane breaks about thirty miles out of town up on the North Fork of the Bosque River. Soon as I realized my pursuers had most likely given up the hunt, turned the gray and headed east for the Navasota. Took three more days of sneaking and hiding before I finally felt relatively safe again.

  Was in search of a spot to camp, on my sixth day in the briars and brambles, when I came upon a feller who'd already staked out a likely place and had coffee cooking. Not much light left. Dismounted and walked up as close as I felt would be safe and said, in as unthreatening a way as possible, "Evening, sir. Wonder if you might share a cup of that fine-smelling brew you've got on the fire."

  Man was hatless, and sat with his back to a sheltering nook between the huge roots of a live oak. Even in the poor glow given off by his dying fire, I could see suspicion etched into a fearsome face. His saddle and other belongings were neatly laid out under a lean-to tarp affair draped over a low-hanging limb. A long-legged black, tied to a bush, munched grass about twenty feet away.

  Figured the fellow'd probably send me packing with gunfire chasing behind. Must admit I was some surprised when he said, "Come on in. They's an extra cup there by the pot."

  His deep, animalistic voice rumbled and growled at me, but my hunger overcame any hidden threat I might have detected there. Tried my level best not to look anxious as I headed for the warmth of his cook ring.

  Squatted, and poured myself a hearty portion of his freshly made belly wash. Stuff was so strong, I think it could've walked from the pot to my cup. Said, "Do appreciate the kindness, sir. I've about worn myself to a frazzle. Been on the move for several days. Haven't had a decent helpin' of up-and-at-'em juice the whole time. Not much in the way of food neither."

  My mysterious host pointed to an iron skillet next to the coffee and said, "They's bacon and fried cornpone in that 'ere pan. Throw it to the forest's creatures if'n you don't eat it."

  "Sure you don't mind?"

  "Done told you how I felt on the matter. Have a bit of something to eat, boy. Feller your age needs considerable more in the way of nourishment than old wolverines like me."

  Set to gnawing on his bacon and pone. Hell, I was so hungry, a plate of boiled boot heels would have tasted good. Got down to the last piece of bacon before the founder of the feast spoke again. He rolled himself a cigarette and said, "What's your name, son?"

  Had no reason to lie. Didn't know him from Adam so I said, "Eli. Eli Gault. And yours, sir?"

  Caught him glaring at me, and reckoned I might have stepped across some kind of invisible line he didn't want violated. But, hell, he'd started it. When he finally said, "Cutter Sharpe," I almost passed out.

  Cutter Sharpe was burdened with the rather dubious reputation as one of the most accomplished man killers in Texas. His standing as a consummate gun handler had spread far and wide. If you could find anyone in the state who hadn't heard of him, that person was probably the resident of a graveyard and had been in the ground for a good many years. Way the tales got told and retold, the man eyeballing me while I ate his food had sent more than his share to those same cemeteries.

  Grew a sizable bold streak when I said, "Rumor has it you're one of the most dange
rous men alive. That true?"

  The wary gunman shifted in his seat and chuckled. Sound came from deep inside his chest. He wiped a drooping mustache on back of the hand holding the cigarette and said, "Well, young Eli Gault, you missed the mark by an inch or two. Truth is, I am the most dangerous man alive."

  Now, that's what I had wanted to say, but thought he might not take well to being described in such a manner. Sought to soften my initial remarks and thereby gain his trust. But since he'd opened that jug himself, I said, "I do appreciate you allowing me your company, Mr. Sharpe. Would you mind if I asked you another question, sir?"

  He chuckled again. "You know, I've always admired the ironbound boldness that comes with the stupidity of youth. Ask away, Eli. I'm feeling right sociable presently. And there ain't nobody around this small chunk of woodsy heaven but you, me, and the skeeters on this starless night, so go on ahead and spit it out."

  Stood and moved to the side of the fire closest to his resting place. Squatted again to restore his level of comfort. "Can you teach me how to handle a gun, Mr. Sharpe? I do all right, as long as I'm up close. Usually put out as much lead as possible and pray I hit something. My self-taught approach has served me well so far. But I fear the method might be lacking in good judgment should I ever come up against a truly talented gun handler. And given the events of my recent life, I feel your assistance could prove beneficial to my continued existence."

  He laughed out loud, coughed, flicked the cigarette into the dying fire, and said, "Damned if you ain't one fast-talking son of a bitch, Eli. Filled my ears up till I don't think you could put any more words in 'em tonight. Might cause my head to crack open." Then he guffawed again. Thought himself right funny, I suppose.

  I kept after him. Said, "Didn't mean to appear uppity or too inquisitive, but I'm in dire need, Mr. Cutter. Vengeful men are on my trail at this very moment. Should they catch me, I shudder to think on the fate they might have planned."

  Cold blue eyes stared into mine during my hasty appeal. He turned his attention to another raid on a beaded tobacco pouch, and fell into thought until he'd finished rolling a second coffin nail. Finally, he said, "Never had such a request before. Most likely, the solitary nature of my existence prevented appeals like yours in the past. Haven't had the opportunity to consider anything like you've proposed." He sucked in a lungful of smoke, flicked ash toward the fire, and continued. "Tell you what, Eli. Why don't you throw your bedroll down by the fire. We'll both sleep on it. Come tomorrow morning, I'll have your answer. Right now, I'm worn down to a nub. Ain't exactly thinkin' right. Otherwise, I'd of probably shot hell out of you soon as I heard your call to come into camp. A man cain't be too careful these days, you know."

  And that's exactly the way the night worked out. Lay in my blanket and wondered what he would do. Even prayed on it some. Figure most folks won't believe it, but that's what I did.

  Woke to biscuits baking in a Dutch oven, frying bacon, even scrambled cackle berries. Amazed me that anyone could have eggs out in the middle of nowhere like that. But I discovered in the morning's light a pack animal not previously noticed. Sleek-looking mule appeared to have been loaded with all the necessities for making life as comfortable as possible when a town did not present itself. Vowed to get myself a similar creature at the first opportunity.

  Sharpe noticed that I'd come back from the darkness of dreamland. "You ready for some grub, Eli?"

  "Yes, sir, I am. Smell from your skillet already lit up my appetite. Think if I don't get some of those biscuits down pretty quick, my stomach might bite a hole in my pistol belt."

  Sharpe laughed and kept at his cooking. We ate, and, afterward, I helped him clean up. He stowed away all the pots and pans, then worked both of us a smoke. As we lit up, he said, "Must say, I was intrigued by your proposal last evening, son. Thought on it till deep into the night. Didn't believe there for a spell I'd ever get to sleep." He took a puff and thought some more. "Decided I'd do 'er."

  "Can't tell you how much I appreciate your decision, Mr. Sharpe."

  "Well, it's a hard life we live these days. They's armies of dangerous men out and about. Time and circumstance has a way of drawing some of us into lives we never intended on living."

  "That's exactly what happened," I said. "I'm nothing more than a victim of God-sent circumstance." 'Course that was a bald-faced lie but, like most people my age, I'd been aware of how far you can go on a line of unadulterated bullshit with grown-ups ever since learning how to talk. Just nothing like a pack of lies to make your elders feel good.

  "Since I don't know your history, Eli, can't agree or dispute your conclusions. But my own life on the owlhoot trail started as the result of a series of misunderstandings that resulted in killings I had no control over. Since that time, I've been forced into a long list of what civilized society views as atrocities, but were no more than the necessities of survival."

  "My story exactly, Mr. Sharpe. Had no idea there were other men who suffered from the same burden."

  He crushed the ash of his cigarette on a rock and flicked it aside. "This may well be the Year of Our Lord 1879, but living as we know it, out here on the frontier, is still mean, dangerous, and sometimes downright deadly. Behooves any man who wishes to stay alive to learn the use of firearms. Being as I'm about as good as it gets in such practice, it'd be my pleasure to teach you as much as I can about what I know."

  Heavenly days, but I felt as though my chest would fill till it burst with a swelling pride. There I was nothing more than a complete stranger to one of Texas's most prolific murderers, and he had agreed to teach me how to be more effective at the killing trade. My God, but it was inspiring. Felt almost as good as the night I rushed down Pa's aisle and he saved me from eternal damnation. Well, almost as good anyway.

  Cutter began his murderous instructions as we traveled a hidden trail that ran from Waco to Nacogdoches. We'd ride a few miles and then stop. While resting our animals, he'd teach. First lesson involved me showing off my version of how to draw and fire. Suffice it to say, my newly made traveling companion was not impressed.

  He laid a row of pebbles on a fallen tree. Watched my clumsy efforts with his hands jammed behind a concho-decorated cartridge belt. A crooked frown betrayed his feelings. "You're well enough equipped. Beautiful set of pistols. And you get 'em out and up quick enough, but my God, Eli, you couldn't hit a loaded beer wagon from twenty feet. Hell, you didn't even hit the log, boy," he said, as a heavy cloud of acrid black-powder smoke drifted up our noses and burned our eyes.

  "What'd I do wrong?"

  "Well, other than a pretty good draw, damn near everything." He placed a comforting hand on my shoulder. "No need to get in such a hurry, son. What a sane man wishes for, more'n anything else, in a gunfight is to get out of the thing alive. Way you accomplish such a heartily desired end is to take your time. As long as you keep your head, you can just about bet that ninety-nine times out of a hundred your opposition is gonna be a hell of a lot more concerned about getting shot and dyin' than you are."

  Thought on that one for a spell before I asked, "How's that? Why would my opposition be more anxious than me?"

  Cutter pushed his hat back and squinted hard. "Because down deep, where it counts, the average man is a coward. He fears death and sees it coming for him when facing a man he's fully aware just might kill him. Many a sensible feller who stares down the wrong end of one of these .45-caliber blasters can feel the fires of Perdition lickin' at his heels. You just gotta keep your head, son. Deliberate man usually survives to fight again."

  I reloaded as he talked. "But there are gunmen in every peckerwood-sized town in Texas these days just looking to make a reputation by killing somebody, anybody who happens by."

  He snorted a chuckle. "Aw, hell, Eli, them town gunnies are the blusterin'est, most gutless jackasses of them all. I ain't seen one yet I'd fear, 'less he got behind me. So, what I want you to do is watch me. Count to three and say, go."

  Cutter turned kind of si
deways to our makeshift target. Far as I could see the odd stance exposed his right side to any potential gunfire. But then it came to me as how he'd narrowed any target his opposition could see. He calmly slipped the leather keeper loop from his pistol's hammer and waited. I did as asked. Said, "Go," and the pistol, strapped high on a bony hip, appeared in a metallic flash. He brought his left hand up to grip the right and used his left thumb to cock the weapon. Faster than I could count them, ole Cutter tore off six shots that all found their mark. Didn't miss once.

  "Impressive," I said. "Your method works well at a distance, but what if you're sitting across the table from some dumb ass in a saloon who decides to draw on you."

  "Well, hell, if you're less than ten feet away, no reason you shouldn't be able to kill the son of a bitch with damn near no effort at all. Same deal, though. Most men who get sucked into such as you described let their nerve fail them and, before they know what's happened, are staring at the ceiling through dead eyes. Just keep your wits about you."

  The lessons continued apace. During the day, Cutter had me shooting at anything and everything. We'd be riding along and he'd point and yelp, "Twig." My job was to hit whatever he indicated as quickly as possible. For the first few days, twigs, stumps, rocks, and even trees were as safe as newly born babes clutched to their mothers' bosoms. I didn't hit a damned thing.

  Late on the fourth afternoon, something happened. Can't say exactly what, but everything he directed my attention toward got blasted to bits. "See. You've relaxed," he said. "The gun's becoming a part of you. One-handed shootin's turning into nothing more'n second nature. But you still need to adopt my two-handed approach when afoot. Helps you shoot quick and accurate."

  We rode, stopped, lounged beside the trail, burned so much powder that I'd shot up more than two hundred rounds in less than a week. Cutter said, "Most men don't fire a box of shells a year through a pistol. Rifle maybe. Hunter might shoot up that much in a shotgun, but handguns, not a chance. You're way ahead of the game, boy."