by J. Lee Butts
Sure enough, fifteen or twenty minutes after he'd soaked me down, the big bastard slammed the door against the wall and strode directly to my cell. He banged the jail's big key ring against the bars and said, "Wake up, goddammit. Scum like you don't deserve to get a good night's sleep. Once your trial's over, and the good citizens of Nacogdoches have sent you to the penitentiary, I'm gonna make sure some of my friends down at Huntsville know you're coming. They'll give you a real sweet welcome, sonny boy."
Rolled over in my cot and said, "Ain't no jury in Texas gonna convict us for killing Spook McCain. Even Marshal Young said we'd probably be acquitted. Why don't you leave us the hell alone before we're forced to hurt you, Turnbow."
Smile bled from his face like water running off a tin roof. He growled, "Hurt me? Did you say you might hurt me?"
Ignorant son of a bitch moved right up against my cell door. That's when he heard Cutter say, "Move and I'll put one in your brain, you stupid bastard."
Big deputy cut his eyes toward my partner's cell, and found himself looking into the bottom of four barrels of potential death. Cutter stood in the corner nearest me. Had his arm through the spaces between the bars. Pistol no more than two feet from Turnbow's enormous thick skull.
"Now," Cutter hissed, "turn to your right and carefully hand them keys through the bars to young Mr. Moon. You make even the slightest move toward that pistol on your hip, and four pieces of lead's gonna make your head into a water trough. Let him hand them to you, Henry, then get his gun."
Soon as the bothersome jackass slipped the key ring into my hands, I reached over and snatched his pistol out of its holster, opened my cell, and with his own weapon, motioned the belligerent deputy to a spot against the wall. He had his hands in the air. I do declare he had the appearance of a man in the throes of advanced malaria.
Cutter came out of his cell like a teased tiger. He grabbed the deputy's gun out of my hand, jumped up in the terrified man's face, and snarled, "Well, now, wonder just how brave you're feeling right this instant, Clinton. You want to throw a bucket of piss on my friend again? Dump piles of horse dung in our cells? That what you'd like to do right now?"
Turnbow shook so bad, I thought he'd collapse right in front of us. He almost cried when he said, "Look, fellers, I was just funnin'. You know how it is. Middle of the night. Nothing to do. Just trying to entertain myself so I could stay awake. Didn't mean nothin' by it."
Cutter shoved the pistol barrel so deep into the quivering man's gut, I could only see about half of it. He was almost nose to nose with my tormentor when he snapped, "Get your big ass into that cell before I completely lose my temper and kill the hell out of you."
Turnbow's feet couldn't have touched the floor. Man must have jumped damn near ten feet. Snatched the door closed behind him and said, "Won't yell, won't make no outcry till you boys is out of town. You can trust me. I swear it. Bang my head on the wall and say you knocked me out. Won't even mention you had the derringer."
Cutter said, "Where's our belongings? Our animals? That horse and mule mean a lot to me. And if they's one thing missing from my property, I'll come back here and kill the whole damned lot of you."
"Traps, saddles, and such is on the floor out yonder in the office. Guns in the rack on the wall behind the marshal's desk. Nothing's gone missing, I swear. Horses and the mule's at Turner's Livery."
"Where's that," I snapped.
A shaking finger pointed the direction as he said, "Turn right when you go out the door. At the end of Main Street. Wake ole man Turner up. Tell him Clinton Turnbow sent you. He'll let you have your animals, no questions asked. I swear it."
Over his shoulder, Cutter said to me, "Henry, look in the office and see if he's telling the truth. Check everything before you come back. Make damned sure our weapons are out there."
Sure enough, all our stuff was stacked up in one corner of the office. I called out that everything seemed in place, and was searching through the pile when I heard several muffled "thumps" from the cell block that were loud enough to really get my attention.
Ran back inside to find Cutter where I'd left him, but with a pillow draped over his gun hand. Clinton Turnbow lay slumped into my cot. Most of his head had slid down the wall behind him in a gooey mass of blood, bone, and brains.
"Damn, Cutter, I thought you'd decided to let him live."
He dropped the pillow and headed for the door. "Changed my mind," he mumbled. "Bastards like him don't need to breathe our air."
We grabbed all our guns and gear. Headed for the livery fast as we could hoof it under the load. Sun was just before getting up, and old man Turner's day had already begun. He didn't seem the least bit surprised when we told him Turnbow sent us.
Cutter could be right sociable when such behavior was required. He and the old man cussed, and discussed, like lifelong compadres as we got saddled and loaded.
And while he might not have been taken aback by our early morning appearance, Turner did seem a bit inquisitive when he said, "Marshal Young decide to drop the charges agin you fellers?"
Cutter didn't even look up from his efforts when he said, "Yep. Said the way he figured it, innocent boys like us should be thanked for doing the State of Texas a service by rubbing out worthless scum like Spook McCain."
Turner sounded like a Baptist deacon when he replied, "Well, amen to that."
As we climbed into our saddles, Cutter said, "And you know, my friend, I thank God Almighty there's still fine, upstanding men like Marshal John Pinckney Young around who realize the justifiable nature of misunderstandings such as ours." He leaned down, shook the old man's hand, then handed him a ten-dollar gold piece. "You make it a point to thank him for us next time you see him. Would you do that for me?"
The old stableman's eyes misted up when he said, "For this amount of money, I will definitely do that for you, sir. Be assured I will. May God protect you on your journey, gentlemen. Hope to see you again in the near future."
Hadn't got far when Cutter chuckled and said, "Sweet Jesus, never forget, son, all it takes to fool some people is a little money and a shovelful of bullshit."
From the stable, we headed east, but had only gone four or five miles when Cutter turned us north in a big half circle that pointed us toward Fort Worth. He said, "We'll push this as hard as we can till we get to Hell's Half Acre. Young won't ever find us there. Fact, nobody will be able to find us there."
Somewhere along the trail to Fort Worth, I came to realize exactly what had occurred when my partner murdered Deputy Marshal Clinton Turnbow. He'd made me party to a killing not of my choosing.
Hell, there's no doubt I hated the dead son of a bitch, but he was a lawman. Even as young, and stupid, as I had to admit to being, I knew that lawdogs tended to be cultish in their devotion to one another. Every badge-carrying bastard in the state would be on our trail now. And given the slightest chance, one of them would kill us both graveyard dead. Got to figuring that if me and Cutter lived another month, we'd be the luckiest men in Texas.
7
"The hell you say."
At first, I felt sure we'd make our destination in a week or so, but Cutter had other plans. Once we got out into the unpopulated countryside, he zigged and zagged so much I couldn't tell which direction we were headed about half the time.
We'd been running hard for three days when I said, "Sweet Jesus, my ass is killing me, Cutter. We've been in the saddle from daylight till dark ever since we rode out of Nacogdoches. We ever gonna slow down a bit?"
He threw me a smoldering glance over his shoulder. "John Young ain't no fool, boy," he said. "Man's been on our trail since the minute he found Turnbow's pea-sized brain splattered all over that cell wall."
"You really think he'd follow us this far from his home base?"
"Hell, we haven't really gone that far yet."
"Must have been at least a hundred miles, hasn't it?"
He chuckled and shook his head. "I can tell you ain't been at this runnin' and hidin' g
ame long, have you, Eli?"
"Well, no," I said. "But that don't make me an idiot. Way we've been going at this, we shouldn't be far from Fort Worth by now."
"We ain't even halfway there yet. Ran in ever-widening circles the first two days. Then headed south for a spell, north for a while, even doubled back to within ten miles of Nacogdoches at one point."
"Christ on a crutch, Cutter. At this rate, it'll take us a month to get to Fort Worth."
All he said in reply was, "Just about."
On the fourth day, he finally let up some. Stopped on a hill, and sat for almost two hours watching our back trail through his long glass. Finally, he said, "Think we lost 'em, Eli. Can't see any movement behind us. I can usually spot the most careful trackers around. Could be as how Marshal Young might be determined, but maybe he ain't very smart. Just as well. I'm in the mood for a night in a hotel bed. Want me a skin-singer of a bath. Visit with a hot-blooded bawdy woman. Maybe gamble some. How 'bout it, son?"
"Sounds good to me."
"Well, then, we'll head for Six Points. One-horse, one-saloon, one-hotel town where there shouldn't be anyone who'll know us. Get us a good scrubbin', visit the ladies, play a little poker, drink a tubful of spider-killer if the saloon's still up and running. Last time I rode through the place, damned near everything there looked on the verge of blowing away."
Said, "I don't have no money, Cutter. Not a red cent. Marshal and his deputies took my whole poke when we checked into his jail. Didn't think to go through his desk drawers for it when we left."
"Don't worry, son. I've got plenty. Old trick you need to learn. Convert everything to paper. Slit the lining of your favorite coat. Put the money inside, sew 'er back up for emergencies. Usually carry at least a thousand dollars with me. Hell, I've got money hid in virtually every piece of clothing I own. Probably hauling three or four thousand around most times."
Struck me as downright odd that anyone would have that much cash on them, or tell about it. "Risky behavior, isn't it?" I asked.
Cutter laughed so hard he almost fell off his horse. "What the hell's so funny, old man?"
He reined up and went into a coughing fit. When he was finally able to speak, he said, "Who in hell's gonna try and rob Cutter Sharpe—one of the deadliest pistoleers in all of Tejas? Anybody that stupid should end up deader than Davy Crockett."
"Not everyone knows you by sight, Cutter. If those boys back in Nacogdoches had recognized you, bet they'd of hung your old ass on the spot."
That forceful argument set him to laughing again. "God, but you're right, Eli. Guess the only folks what would know a gunman like me would have to have seen my face on a wanted poster. But, hell, most of them sorry handbills don't have a likeness of any kind, just a bad description. And them what has pictures don't look nothing like me. Hell, next time we run on one we'll steal it. Some of 'em is funnier'n a three-legged mule tryin' to pull a buggy."
Six Points turned out like a host of other backwater Texas towns. Half a dozen rugged roads crossed each other in the town's rapidly deteriorating square, then fanned out to finer and more prosperous settlements all over the state. Place was about as big as the little end of nothing whittled to a sharp tip.
Years before, those six thoroughfares brought cowboys on their way home from cattle drives, traveling drummers, gamblers, thieves, and killers in search of a place to sleep and refuge from the trail. Now, building after building appeared empty and abandoned to the vagaries of the harsh local weather.
But wonders of wonders, the saloon and hotel appeared shabby but prosperous, and seemed to be going full blast. Looked like a teakettle about to explode. Closer we got to the center of town, the more colorful wagons, horses, and people we came upon. They were strung out all around the town square. Hell, it was a traveling circus.
Pa and I'd run across such spectacles a time or two in our extensive journeys. The one in Six Points was larger than most. A perambulating menagerie of strange beasts of a type and variety I'd only seen once or twice in my short life were corralled in rope enclosures at every blink of the eye. I saw elephants in one large pen and a pair of camels in a second. Even had some striped animals that resembled black-and-white mules in another.
We passed a wagon full of African lions. Leastways, that's what the sign on the side of the trailer said they was. Biggest cats I'd ever seen. Feller sporting bushy chin whiskers led a monstrous black bear down the street on a chain. Elaborately painted sign on top of a tiger cage identified the bodacious spectacle as COLONEL JOSIAH THOMPSON'S CIRCUS, CARNIVAL, AND EXOTIC ANIMAL SHOW—SEE THE MOST BEAUTIFUL WOMEN IN THE WORLD.
The part about the females proved somewhat accurate. All kinds, types, and sizes of the fairer sex strutted around in various states of undress. Some of them might have been recognized as semibeautiful; a few bordered on pretty. One right nice-looking ole gal was covered, head and foot, with tattoos. Another sported a stringy beard that came all the way down to her waist.
At the time, I supposed that under a tent, and at a distance, it would have been difficult for most folks to tell whether any of those females were beautiful or not. Back in those days, most men didn't much care about beauty. Especially if the woman was only partially dressed. And if completely nude, any female available could be ugly enough to make a freight train take a dirt road and it wouldn't matter a whit.
What we'd happened upon by accident was a total wonderment. Couldn't believe my eyes. Don't think Cutter could either. For all his worldliness, he looked like a flabbergasted farm boy on his first trip to town.
I heard him mutter, "Well, damnation. Don't this beat all you've ever witnessed, Eli?"
We tied up at the hitch rack in front of the Six Points Hotel. Went directly to the desk. Place had seen far better days. Interior and exterior needed a heavy coat of paint, or at the very least a wet mop. But appearance didn't mean much that night. Run-down lodge bustled with activity. Gamblers, bootleggers, thieves, and every other sort of riffraff imaginable had followed Colonel Thompson's extravaganza like buzzards circling a bloated corpse. There was money to be made, suckers to be fleeced, and loose women to be had at every turn of the head.
Snippy-acting desk clerk saw us coming. He held up a limp-wristed hand that fluttered like a dying dove and said, "Sorry, gentlemen, but we don't have so much as an empty closet tonight."
Cutter looked right put out. "Mean to say you don't have nothin'?" He pointed off to his left. "How 'bout them billiard tables. Know you've got two of 'em back yonder in that room. Hell, we'll sleep on them."
"Sorry, they're taken, too."
"We'll sleep under 'em."
"Not a chance, sir. By midnight, there won't be so much as an available inch of floor space either. I fully expect to have men, and women, sleeping in the halls, here in the lobby, even out on the boardwalk."
"What about a bath?" I asked.
Pencil pusher gandered around the room like he teetered on the verge of collapse from boredom and said, "Got five freshly hired employees carrying water as fast as they are humanly able, and there's at least a three-to-five-hour wait for a bath. Biggest night in Six Points in more than two years, gentlemen. A bath is most likely out of the question until sometime tomorrow morning. Ten o'clock at the earliest."
Cutter was about as flummoxed as a man could get. "The hell you say."
"Absolutely, sir. The hell I certainly do say. To repeat myself for about the third time, there's not a square foot of empty space available until tomorrow night when these fine theatrical folk have vacated the premises." Clerk said "theatrical" like he had something about the size of a guinea egg stuck in his throat he needed to hack up and spit onto his countertop.
Tired to the bone, my partner got right impatient. Reached over the counter and grabbed the hotel feller by the shirtfront. Cocked his head to one side, nailed the ill-humored gomer with a snarl, and snapped, "Do you know of any place out of the weather we might be able to get a bath and put up for the night?"
About t
hen, I think the hotel's most visible if somewhat unfriendly representative realized he had a man not to be trifled with standing in front of him. He went to fumbling with his register when Cutter dropped him. He blinked real fast for a spell while rivers of sweat poured into a greasy collar.
"W-w-well, sir. I-I think I might be able to help you. There is a lady who lives about two miles west of town who takes boarders. Keeps clean rooms, serves meals, and provides baths for a single reasonable price. She should have something available." He waved a limber arm at the seething crowd around us and added, "I don't think any of this rabble wants to reside that far from whatever the night might bring by way of action."
"You got a name for us?" I asked.
"Mrs. Scott, my good sir. Mrs. Hanna Scott. A fine, upstanding lady. Can't miss her place. It's a neatly cared-for two-story home. Sports a white picket fence and a sign out front. I would be most pleased to write an introductory note informing her that I sent you along."
We took the much-put-upon clerk's short missive and headed out of town. Mrs. Scott's boardinghouse appeared exactly as described. In one corner of her grass-covered yard, behind the picket fence, a huge magnolia sported massive blossoms that saturated the entire area in a sweet and pleasant perfume. A white-haired, grandmotherly-looking woman occupied one of the half-dozen rockers decorating a deep porch across the entire front of the home. She waved when we stopped, stood, and invited us inside.
Cutter handed the well-fed lady our introduction and, as we stepped onto her porch, she said, "Gentlemen, you look plumb tuckered out. There are hot baths available. Walk down the hallway, straight through the house. Tubs, towels, and such are waiting on the back porch. While you bathe, I'll prepare supper and have it on the table when you're cleansed and feeling better."
We thanked her, and followed as she ushered us to our baths. My God, it'd been a spell since I'd spent any time sitting in a hot tub of soapy water. Pitched the clothes I wore into the trash. They still reeked of whatever Turnbow threw on me. Pulled a fresh suit from my saddlebags after the best soak I could remember. Went to Mrs. Scott's table in a state of virtual slobber from the tasty aromas exuded by country-fried chicken, roasted potatoes, and the most delicious turnip greens I'd ever tasted. Served 'em with a stack of biscuits, each the size of a blacksmith's fist, and flour gravy. One helluva fine meal.
