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

by J. Lee Butts

  Cutter stood me in front of the mirror when he finished and said, "There you are. A lover, a fighter, and a wild bull rider. Bet there ain't one of these gamblin' sons of bitches will detect the fraud. We're gonna skin 'em six ways from Sunday, Eli." The faded shirt, rough canvas pants, run-down boots, Mexican spurs, and Boss of the Plains hat had me looking like a first-class wrangler, all right.

  We had dinner in the hotel dining room. Took five hundred of the money I'd scooped off the table in Six Points and five hundred of Cutter's stash, and headed for the White Elephant. Guess it was around eight or nine o'clock by then. Joint was busier than a stomped-on anthill. People came and went in droves. We had to push our way into the front door.

  Could have had a meal in the White Elephant's dining room, I suppose. Eating establishment was located on the first floor. Nicely appointed joint. Lots of dark paneling, heavy furniture, and etched glass everywhere. Gambling took place on the second floor, where you could play at tables in a common area near the bar, or in private rooms reserved mostly for the high rollers.

  We sidled up to the bar, ordered a bottle, and I watched while Cutter gave the room and its occupants a careful eyeballing. Was pouring my second drink when he said, "No, Eli. One real tipple a night's all you get for as long as this dodge works. I'll see to it that the glass on your table is filled with nothing more than strong tea. It'll look enough like whiskey to fool anyone we set out to hoodwink."

  Guess it might have sounded a bit testy when I snapped, "I can hold my liquor. No need for anything so drastic as that."

  "Trust me, boy. This is the best way. Want to keep your wits about you. Some of the men sitting in this room will kill you deader'n a rotten stump if they even suspect you might be the ringer at the table."

  Resigned myself to the ruse and said, "Well, where do we start?"

  He made a sweeping gesture across the room with the hand holding his glass. "See the table in the corner? Just a bunch of locals from the look of 'em. Can't detect any traveling sharpies. We'll start with them. Let 'em win two hundred or so, Eli. Then clean 'em out."

  "How long you think we'll be here tonight?"

  "Might be a spell. In fact, it'd be better if you take your time. Hell, all we've got is time on our hands. Lose big for a spell. Win big, lose a few. You can do it, son. We could walk out of here in the morning with thousands."

  Sauntered over to the suckers he picked. Stood by their table watching till one of the players threw in his cards and vacated a chair. When I asked to sit in, five pairs of eyes lit up like the headlight on a Texas and Pacific freight. You could see it all over them. A defenseless wad-die who'd arrived just in time to be skinned alive. Bastards planned to clean me out from the git-go. God Almighty, were they in for a surprise.

  Ole Cutter's dodge was glorious. Whole deal worked exactly the way he'd planned. Them boys was one shocked bunch when I called it a night and walked off with damn near every cent they had to their names. When we stepped out onto the boardwalk early the next morning, I was wired up tighter than a banjo string. We counted out our winnings on the bed in our room. Total came to almost two thousand dollars.

  Cutter said, "And that's from a bunch of low-life no-account locals. Nothing close to what passed over some of the tables around us." He spent till almost daylight trying to calm me down. I finally fell asleep about the time the sun came up. Just before noon, we had breakfast in the hotel dining room and made plans for our next raid.

  "We'll lay out tonight, Eli. Just waltz over, have a few beakers of joy juice, and watch the action."

  Cutter couldn't have picked a better word for that night's events. We'd been loafing at the bar for about two hours when an argument started at a table right in front of us.

  Cowboy, dressed in a getup that could have passed him off as my brother, jumped to his feet and kicked his chair away. "That's it, you thievin' son of a bitch. Let it go by the board when I seen you going into your vest for the holdout card. Bein' as how you didn't win with it anyways. But by God, I'll not let you continue usin' that fancy diamond ring as a shiner to look at all the cards when you're dealin'." His hand rested on the butt of a silver-plated, stag-handled pistol, and, from all appearances, the slick-looking gent being dressed down was about to meet his Maker.

  Local gambler I'd heard the bartender call Red Connor pushed his silk top hat to the back of his head and placed both hands on the table. Feller was decked out as cocky as the king of spades. Real peaceful, he said, "You need to calm down. Seems you think I'm trying to cheat you, friend. Let me assure you, this game is square. Nothing underhanded here."

  "Now you done went and compounded your sin, cardsharp. Lyin' ain't quite as bad as cheatin', but it's damned close. You might think me stupid, mister, but I've been around the bush a time or two and know when the brace is on. If this game is square, I rode in sidesaddle this afternoon on a sow."

  Bartender leaned over between me and Cutter and yelled, "Take it outside, gents. You know better, Red. You're disturbing our other players. Management don't want no trouble in here. Keep it up, and I'll call the marshal."

  Feller in the silk hat said, "No trouble, Mr. Jackson. My overly anxious opponent is just about to leave before something awful happens."

  Cowboy snorted, "Is that a fact? And just what son of a bitch is gonna make me?"

  Red raised his right arm about six inches off the table. I heard something that sounded like metal snapping, and, as if by magic, a four-barreled derringer appeared in his hand.

  Disgruntled cowhand flinched and, real calm, the gentleman sharpie said, "Do you want to die tonight, son?" His other hand came up and a matching pistol appeared in it. Poor waddie was staring down eight barrels of primed, cocked, and ready potential death.

  I was dumbfounded. Like a kid who'd just seen a traveling magician make doves appear out of a flaming tambourine. How those tiny poppers materialized was a total mystery to me at the time.

  Cutter chuckled. He whispered, "Think our hot-mouthed buckaroo best give up on this argument or get hisself killed deader'n a rusted brandin' iron."

  Guess the dissatisfied cow chaser came to the same conclusion. His hand drew away from the fancy-gripped Colt, and he headed for the stairs. But on the first step, he turned and said, "This ain't over, not by a damned sight. You are an irritant and a vexation to me of the first water, and we'll take this up again at another time."

  Red Connor snapped, "Keep walking or suffer the consequences."

  Threat didn't scare the fast-talking wrangler. He said, "While you deal in cards, you pasteboard-bendin' son of a bitch, I deal in lead. Best watch your back, tinhorn." Then he scurried away like a lizard looking for a nice cool rock to hide under.

  Cutter fired up a cigarette and placed his hand on my shoulder. "Take this as a free lesson, Eli. There's more'n a good chance that most of these professional types cheat at one time or another. But if you're gonna accuse one of them of not being on the up and up, always draw first, and then hit 'em with your claim. Don't ever give one of these bastards an inch. If you do, he'll take a mile, and you might end up dead, or put to shame like that poor stupid goober who just flounced out of here."

  "Damn, Cutter, think I'd like to have me a set of whatever that gambler's got up his sleeve that causes those little pistols to pop out like they did."

  "Cumbersome rod-and-spring contraption that straps to your arm. You're better off with that fine Colt of yours holstered across your belly. Lot more powerful and intimidating. Just as easy to draw and fire."

  While we'd planned to lay out that night, the easily available, recently vacated seat at the sharpie's table was just too good to pass up. I sat in on the game and spent most of the evening trying to figure out if the irate cowboy might have been accurate. Never was able to detect anything amiss. And best of all, came away a winner when the game finally broke up at about two the next morning.

  Cutter and I took our leave of the Elephant a step or so ahead of the other men at the table. We'd bar
ely passed through the front entrance when I spotted the still-fuming leather pounder. He skulked in a badly lit alleyway across Main between the Centennial Theatre and Merchants Restaurant.

  "Guess who I just spotted, Cutter."

  "I seen him 'fore we got to the boardwalk," my friend said. "Let's get the hell out of the way, Eli. Don't want the law lookin' to me for testimony on this one. We'll watch, and then get the hell out of here soon as the shootin's over."

  "You really believe they'll shoot it out?"

  "Not one doubt in my mind," he said, and pulled me to a spot on the south wall closest to our hotel.

  Red Connor strolled into the street and appeared totally oblivious to what awaited him. Man couldn't have taken more than half a dozen steps when I heard his outraged adversary yell, "You owe me money, you card-cheatin' son of a bitch."

  Well, that got ole Red's attention for sure. He stopped dead in his tracks, slowly removed a cigarette from his lips, and searched the darkness for the origin of the threat.

  Leaned Cutter's direction and whispered, "Think the gambler might be a bit shortsighted. Doesn't appear he's able to see very far in the dark."

  'Bout then, the cowboy stomped from his alleyway hidey-hole and into the street. Looked to me as though the adversaries were probably a good fifty or sixty feet apart at the time.

  "You've got three hundred of mine in your poke, cardsharp. Worked hard for that money. Pushed critters more'n five year in order to save up for the future. Ain't about to leave town without it."

  "You lost every penny of that money to me fair and square," Red said.

  "Damned if I did," the wrangler yelled.

  "Damned if you didn't," Red yelled back.

  "Hand over the three hundred or die where you stand, you low-life thievin' bastard."

  Cutter whispered, "Well, it don't get much plainer than that. Red can't get out of this one. He's either gonna have to throw down the cash, and thereby admit he's a card cheat, or fight."

  I said, "Won't be much of a contest at that distance. Take a hell of a shot to hit the Merchants Restaurant with those tiny pistols Red's carrying."

  Guess I'd barely got out the last word when the gambler's arms came up. Fire shot a foot from the barrels of both his pistols, but he couldn't have hit his challenger's horse at that distance. Derringers made popping noises like someone breaking empty bottles against a board fence. Doubt he even woke anyone up. Disturbance Red caused didn't amount to any more than kids shooting off wet firecrackers.

  Nervy brush popper didn't so much as flinch. Leisurely drew his pistol, turned sideways like an old-timer fighting a formal duel over a lady's chastity, took careful aim, and pulled the trigger on his long-barreled cavalry-model Colt. Thunderous muzzle blast shattered the night.

  Heavy slug slapped into Red Connor's chest and shoved him backward two or three steps. One hand darted to the wound as he fired a shot into the ground with the other. Unused pistol uselessly dangled from the steel-rod contraption attached to his arm, and got in the way of the hand grabbing at the blood-squirting hole in his vest.

  Wounded man swayed for two or three seconds before a second shot tore through the air, ripped into his body, and knocked him to his knees. Looked as though he was trying to lift an anvil when a limp arm came about halfway up and fired another harmless popper at nothing in particular. Then he rolled onto his side, kicked at the air like a dying horse, and finally stopped moving.

  The cowboy strolled over to the twice-shot gambler as unhurried as a man on the way to a Baptist church social. He stopped a step from the bleeding heap at his feet and toed the body. Man was mighty surprised when the gambler rolled over and fired two shots right into his crotch. Pistol couldn't have been more than an inch away from the shocked buckaroo's canvas pants when it went off. Burning powder from the muzzle set the material on fire.

  Damnation, but the wound must have hurt something monstrous. Silly son of a bitch screamed like a cat what got its tail caught under Grandma's rocker. Big pistol flew out of his hand like he had hold of a molten horseshoe. He grabbed his privates, went to slapping at the flames, hopped around the street, fell down, rolled in all the filth and horse manure, and yelped for so long, I thought about putting him out of his misery myself.

  Cutter leaned against the wall and laughed like a crazy man. Shook his head and said, "That's gotta be the damnedest gunfight I've ever seen."

  Took my hat off and slapped my leg with it. "Haven't seen that many myself. Sure wouldn't want to get shot in the huevos like that, though."

  People poured out of the saloons and gambling houses along both sides of the street. Feller who claimed to be a doctor rushed up, examined Red Connor, and announced that he'd passed. Poor bastard with the flaming crotch was still hollering to beat the band when they toted him away. Cutter and me headed for our room as fast as we could hoof it.

  Next morning at breakfast, we heard that ole Red's aim couldn't have been any better if he'd planned the whole event. Overheard a whiskey drummer at the table next ours say, "Yessir, blew both of 'em off, clean as a whistle. Hear tell the doctor said as how he couldn't have taken 'em off any cleaner with a sharp knife and an hour to do the cuttin'. Damnedest thing I've ever witnessed."

  Feller at the same table nursed his coffee and said, "You observed the gunplay?"

  "That I did, sir," the drummer bragged. "Had just exited the El Paso Saloon, one of my best customers, when the shoutin' and shootin' started. Hell of a gunfight. One I'm not likely to forget. First time I've ever seen a man set ablaze by pistol fire."

  Cutter leaned across our table and said, "You see that blowhard on the street last night, Eli?"

  "Not that I remember."

  "Me neither. Amazin', ain't it. Some folks just can't pass up an opportunity for the least bit in the way of attention. They'll lie like dogs as long as there's an audience that's willing to listen."

  Next day, Red Connor's grieving wife had him buried in Fort Worth's Oakwood Cemetery. Can't imagine why my friend did it, but Cutter insisted we attend.

  Methodist preacher conducted the services. He did a right fine job, too. Afterward, Cutter and I lingered by the grave for a bit. His reaction to the whole turn of events surprised me.

  Got right misty-eyed when he twisted at the brim of his hat and said, "Killed more'n my share, Eli. Figure God is gonna make me pay up for those sins pretty soon."

  Put a hand on his shoulder and said, "Aw, hell, Cutter, no need to get sentimental on me."

  "This kind of thing doesn't usually have much effect on me, but the day Connor got shot was my birthday. Turned fifty years old while we watched him bite the dust. I'm ancient for a gunfighter. Feel like my time's comin' soon."

  Jesus, I had no idea what to say. Didn't appear to be any way to comfort him. Over the short time we'd been together, felt I'd grown closer to the man than the Reverend and I'd ever been. So I simply let it drop, and once we got away from the graveyard, he perked right up. But, hell, sometimes a man sees death coming when no one else does. Leastways, I know Cutter did.

  10

  "You shot a state senator eight times . . .?"

  For over a month, Cutter and I lived like kings. Second week into our Fort Worth raid, we started a circuit of the Acre's most popular gambling joints. My partner allowed as how the plan would keep our faces from becoming too familiar at any given site. His idea must have worked, because we accumulated an astonishing amount of money, and no one seemed any the wiser as to what we were doing.

  Got to the point where I looked forward to playing in certain locations. Came to genuinely enjoy the companionship offered by Henry Burns's Club Room, R.J. Winder's Cattle Exchange Saloon, and smaller joints like the Tivoli and Occidental. But the Elephant remained my favorite, and I was always at my best on the nights we played there.

  Everything proceeded along swimmingly, couldn't have been any better. And then one night, the entire bottom of our galvanized washtub fell through when Cutter accidentally bumped into a
grubby stack of walking dung on the boardwalk in front of the Theatre Comique. We'd had a few too many of the Bismark's "cold as ice itself beers and were on our way back to our room at the time. Pair of rude sons of bitches stumbled from an alleyway and almost knocked both of us onto our backs.

  Cutter cussed the bastards in a stream of blue language that would have shamed the devil. But afterward, I noticed something must have occurred during the encounter that weighed mighty heavy on his mind. Got to where he spent an uncommon amount of time looking over his shoulder, and when I gambled, he backed into a corner rather than sitting in a chair near my table.

  Several nights of his strange behavior finally got the best of me. On the way to the Elephant for what I expected to be another profitable evening, I placed my arm around his shoulders and said, "What's on your mind, Cutter?"

  "Oh, I've just been a bit anxious the past few days," he said.

  "What's to be anxious about? We're doing great."

  "Remember those two drunks we bumped into the other night?"

  Thought it very odd he would bring up the subject of two insignificant inebriates that meant nothing to me. "Of course I remember. You cussed the hell out of 'em."

  "Sure did. Well, the one who shouldered me looked familiar. Been tryin' to place him ever since. Bad part is he keeps showing up in odd places. Always watchin' us. Has a sneaky aspect to him. His idiot-looking partner is even less cautious in the way he eyeballs where we go and what we're doin'. I think they're following us, Eli."

  "You sure? Could be they're just a pair of whiskey-chasing sots who frequent the same places we do."

  "I suppose. But I've seen 'em both somewheres before. Haven't been able to place the bastards yet, but I will."

  Thought that was the end of the discussion. Leastways, I hoped so. But midway through that very evening's play, felt a tug at my sleeve and Cutter was pointing at the bar. Sure enough, both strangers stood at the far end of the Elephant's highly polished counter, sipped on double shots of scamper juice, and worked much harder than necessary to look as though not interested in what we were doing.