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

by J. Lee Butts

  My friend appeared some agitated, so I excused myself from the game, and we moved to an empty table. He leaned over and whispered, "Recognize him now, Eli. Finally came to me when I saw them stroll up the stairs tonight like they was just here for a friendly drink. One with the handlebar mustache is none other than Mathias Slate. Big bastard sportin' the cauliflower nose, backin' him, is Jonas Wakefield. Never seen one without the other bein' close by."

  He'd left me lying in the dirt. I didn't recognize either name. Hell, there was really no reason why a hen wrangler like me should have been acquainted with such men. Said, "Know you think I've been around almost as much and as long as you, Cutter, but I have no idea who they are. Want to enlighten me?"

  "Mathias Slate is a bounty hunter. Usually works an area from San Antonio south. He and Jonas can boast of being very successful. If a man's been posted and there's money to be made, they'll be after him sooner or later."

  Subtle urgency in his voice brought me to ask, "Think these men are here for you?"

  Cutter didn't miss a beat when he said, "Very likely. Hell, they's posters on me hanging from damn near every tree down that way, 'specially around Gonzales. Even if Slate's not here for a reward, he's been known to hire his gun out for those who wish to buy a bit of cheap revenge."

  "That scruffy son of a bitch is a killer for hire?"

  He rolled a smoke, and lit up before saying, "Yep, and a damned good one. Hear tell he's killed upward of thirty men. Bests me by at least ten."

  "What the hell did you do in Gonzales that would send someone out looking for a hired gun?"

  Several smoke rings made it to the Elephant's tin ceiling before he replied. "Had a run-in with a state senator down that way. Arrogant son of a bitch was causin' more'n a bit of trouble for a lady friend of mine. Caught him on the road to Seguin one afternoon and told him how the cow ate the cabbage. Stupid jackass went to reachin' and grabbin' for his pistol. Wasn't what anyone would call a very smart move on his part. Had to shoot him."

  Don't know why, but I asked, "How many times?"

  "Eight."

  Struck me as some funny. Snorted out a giggle and said, "You shot a state senator eight times because of a woman? This the same man Spook McCain braced us over?"

  He thumped ashes into the spittoon. "Yeah, the very one. Figured I might as well make sure he was dead. Ain't no profit in shootin' anyone, 'less you make damned sure they won't come back and get you. Besides, she was a damned fine woman. Worth killin' a state senator for. Thing I forgot is that rich bastards always have family."

  As one day passed to another, I got to thinking that maybe Cutter had made a mistake. Didn't have any effect on how he acted, though. Kept on looking over his shoulder, and one night I noticed as how he'd moved us to the middle of the street rather than using the boardwalks. Then, on the fourth or fifth night after he pointed Slate and Wakefield out in the Elephant, the sons of bitches braced us.

  We'd rogued our way from the better part of town, down to the Emerald Saloon for a relaxing evening of unfettered drinking, and were on our way back to the hotel. Got to the corner of Sixth and Main Streets. Strolled along a dimly lit area near the board fence on the west side of the Texas Wagon Yard. Cutter had sprung for an evening cigar fresh from Cuba. We were luxuriating in deep tobacco heaven when both them evil sons of bitches jumped out in front of us less than twenty feet away.

  Mathias Slate held a hand up and yelped, "That's far enough, Cutter."

  My friend didn't waste a second responding. "I knew you'd get around to whatever evil brought you to me, Slate."

  Jonas Wakefield stood slightly behind and to the left of his butt-ugly partner. Probably isn't exactly true, but I thought I could smell the filthy son of a bitch. He scratched, hocked up a gob of something awful, spit my direction, and shifted from foot to foot. Every five seconds or so, his right hand would make a slight move toward the grip of an old Colt's Dragoon, and then dart back to the massive Mexican silver buckle holding his belt up.

  I whispered, "Don't worry about Wakefield, Cutter. I'll take him if he makes the wrong move."

  Slate stood spraddle-legged with his thumbs hooked over his pistol belt. "Senator Hightower's family wants you back in Gonzales. They figure to put you on trial for the foul and unnatural murder of a devoted family man and well-known Texas legislator. And after a suitable verdict of guilty as hell, by God, they figure on hangin' the shit out of your sorry ass."

  His smart-mouthed arrogance really got my goat. I snapped, "Sounds like you expect a fine afternoon of entertainment from the Hightower family's murderous plans."

  For the first time, Wakefield chimed in. He shook a finger my direction and said, "We'ens ain't got no truck with you, boy. Time fer you to step aside. Don't want to go answerin' to local lawdogs fer shootin' no innocent citizen."

  Cutter let a nervous chuckle escape. "How come you didn't handle this situation the way you usually do, Mathias?"

  Slate scratched his chin. "And what way would that be, Sharpe?"

  Cutter sneered and said, "Oh, from what I hear, your normal routine usually involves stepping from an alley and shootin' your intended victim in the back. Ain't that right?"

  Slate smiled so big that even in the poor light I could see his tobacco-stained teeth. "Now that's a terrible thing to say, Cutter. Terrible, but true. As it happens, Beauregard Hightower, son of the previously mentioned senator, wants you alive. He's determined to see your neck stretched. Personally told me as how he's gonna giggle like a schoolgirl when you mess your drawers."

  Cutter growled, "Ain't neither one of you back-shootin' dogs good enough to take me head-on, Slate. You're gonna have to resort to past practices. Even you aren't stupid enough to think I'd just give up my pistol and go to my own hanging. Now, either go for your gun, or get the hell out of my way."

  Must have been about five seconds worth of indecision before that idiot Wakefield forced the situation. His hand darted for the almost worthless piece of iron in his belt. Barrel of the Dragoon never cleared for action. Used all the speed, and every trick Cutter had ever taught me, when I whipped out both Elroy Cumby's beautiful Peacemakers.

  As there were no buildings within a block in any direction of where we stood, the ripping crack from the shots I thumbed off thundered away in every direction, and swirled around us in a watery wall of noise. Wakefield staggered backward as four massive slugs driven by thirty-eight grains of black powder slammed into his chest.

  Silly bastard staggered two or three steps, glanced down at the holes in his chest, and said, "Merciful Father. Little son of a bitch done went and kilt me, Mathias."

  The speed and accuracy of my response stunned Mathias Slate into a split second's worth of hesitation. A single eyeblink of time was all Cutter needed.

  The instant Slate realized death had ten bony fingers wrapped around his worthless neck, Cutter drew and fired a red-hot slug that punched a hole between the bounty man's eyes that could have passed for something accomplished with a sharpened drill bit.

  Gout of blood and bone the size of my fist flew from the back of his skull. Traveled about a foot, and turned into a cloud of spraying gore. Odd thing, though. While Wakefield dropped like an anvil in a rain barrel when he went down, Mathias swayed as you might imagine a weeping willow would in a stiff breeze. Pistol slipped from dead fingers as he turned, stumbled three or four steps, and fell on his face.

  Cutter grabbed me by the sleeve and hissed, "Holster your pistols and follow me, Eli."

  He dragged me west to Houston Street. As we turned north toward the hotel, he said, "Slow down. Take your time. Walk like nothing is amiss. Law's gonna be looking for someone running away from the scene. If we meet anybody, tell 'em you saw two men hoof'n it toward the Texas and Pacific Depot."

  Sure enough, we'd barely gone half a block when a couple of fellers waving pistols and wearing deputy marshal's badges came running our direction. Brawny brute who looked like you could bounce cannonballs off his head stopped and
growled, "Hold it right there, boys."

  Cutter pulled up, threw his hands in the air, and said, "Thank God, Officer. You're just the men we wanted to find. Couple of fellers got into a pistol fight with two or three other men over yonder by the wagon yard. Shootin' started, and we got away from there as quick as possible."

  The bruiser's miniature partner squeaked, "You seen what happened?"

  Sounded like a scared Sunday School teacher when I said, "Yes, sir, we did. And we also seen which way the murderin' skunks what kilt them poor boys a-layin' in the street went whence they runned away from their highenous crimes. They's a-headed for the railroad depot. If'n you start now, might just be able to catch 'em afore they gits lost amongst all them cars down in the freight yard."

  Pocket-watch-sized deputy yelped, "Come on, Brutus. If'n we catch us a couple of killers, marshal will love us till we die."

  Took about two seconds for those poor dumb-assed boys to forget we even existed and burn boot leather for the Texas & Pacific station. We kept up our leisurely pace and headed directly to the hotel.

  Cutter threw open the door to our room, snatched his hat off, wiped a sweat-drenched brow, and said, "Whew. Was a close 'un, Eli." He dropped the hat in a chair and flopped onto his bed.

  "Aw, hell, Cutter, wasn't that close. Those poor stupid goobers simply fell for a great ruse. Glad you thought of it."

  "Yeah, well, no matter how you slice it, that big son of a bitch had us in his sights, and things could have gone either way but for the runt. Hadn't been for your amazin' imitation of a pumpkin-rollin' plow-pusher, we'd probably be sittin' in a cell down at the city jail this very minute."

  "Learned how to talk like that from traveling with my father. We had Sunday dinner with so many farmers, I sometimes thought I'd wake up one morning and discover God had turned me into a country-fried chicken."

  Cutter let loose with a strangled laugh, and then fell silent for near five minutes. Finally, he threw me a pained look and said, "We're gonna have to split up. Get the hell out of Fort Worth as quick as we can, son. Tomorrow morning won't be too soon."

  Surprised the hell out of me. Couldn't understand why he'd come to such a conclusion. "What for?" I asked. "No need to worry about them two deputies. Them boys couldn't identify us if we were the only two men left in town who could possibly have dropped a hammer on Slate and Wakefield."

  My trail mate, and close friend, had a pained look on his face when he said, "Don't matter, Eli. Look, son, I've taught you all I can about guns. Think you're probably better'n me with a pistol now. We've done well with the gambling. Figure we'll each get about five thousand in the split. Don't fool yourself. Hell's Half Acre might appear totally lawless, but they've got a marshal here who'll find out what happened down by the wagon yard tonight. You can bet everything we've got on it."

  "That's damned hard to believe. We were the only people there. No one else saw what happened."

  "Don't believe that one for a second. Anytime some empty-headed son of a bitch gets his sad self killed, you can bet someone else saw it. By tomorrow noon, the law's gonna be pounding on that door over yonder with a warrant for our arrests. I know it's hard to take, but we've got to split up, get away from here tonight."

  Took less than an hour to pack our belongings, pay our hotel and stable bills, and hit the road running. We headed in a kind of westerly direction—out toward Mineral Wells. Didn't quit running till about noon the next day.

  Guess we'd gone about twenty miles when Cutter reined up on a scrubby hill. He said, "Here's where we part, Eli. I'm gonna turn north. Head for the Indian Nations. Once I get across the Red River, it won't matter who they send after me. Man can get lost in the Nations—without even trying much."

  Whole turn of events still had my head spinning. Actually didn't believe he'd really split us up. But he looked more troubled than I could remember. From the way he acted, my good friend was in a hurry to move on.

  "Think I'll mosey down toward Gonzales," I said. "My pa used to preach to some right nice folk down that way. Ranchers mainly. Might see if I can hire on with one of them. Lay low for a spell. Try to keep out of trouble. Never worked cattle. Might be fun."

  Cutter turned away and gazed north. "Sounds like a good plan. I'd stay away from any of those places where you left bodies in your wake. They's posters out on you by now. Especially around La Honda. And whatever you do, don't go back to Nacogdoches. Killin' a lawman, even one as worthless as Clinton Turnbow, ain't gonna be forgot anytime soon."

  "Never thought of living this way, Cutter. Suppose I'd best avoid Waco, too."

  "You live by the gun now, Eli. Every town you've put a man in the ground is a place you'd best avoid."

  "Don't sound like much of a life, amigo. Never thought about how I'd live the rest of my days when I killed those men."

  "You're right, Eli. It ain't much of a life. Our brief stay in Fort Worth was the best time I've had in more'n five years. Hell, the Acre was about the only place left where I could walk the streets and not be recognized. That's why I'm headin' for the Nations."

  He offered his hand. I shook it, and we parted as good friends. Just before he rode away, Cutter said, "Gonna be hard to stay alive from now on, son. Whatever comes your way, don't hesitate to protect yourself. Real easy to get dead out in the wild places. Keep 'em primed, Eli. Hope we meet again."

  But I never saw him again. Came to the belief that sometimes hope's not worth a bucket of spit. Sure as hell wasn't as far as me and Cutter were concerned.

  Some months later, I heard he'd been killed in a fight with a posse of Hangin' Judge Parker's deputy marshals. Way the story went, they caught him stealing horses up around McAlester. Never believed it for a second. Wasn't Cutter's style. Whole time we rode together, the man never so much as breathed anything about stealing livestock. Personally, I think he's still alive and living up on the Canadian River somewhere. Holed up in a nice little cabin with a beautiful Indian maiden.

  Pointed myself southeast. Lived the way he'd taught me. Stayed away from the larger towns. Only went into one-horse, one-drink burgs when I needed supplies. But after about three weeks of running and hiding like a wild animal, I craved poker, female company, and something to drink. Stopped in Mexia. Damnation, but that was a bloody mistake.

  11

  "I'll kill you where you stand."

  As the end of my life rapidly approaches, I've given the events that led me into murderous habits some considerable thought. Have come to the undeniable conclusion that nothing short of heavenly intervention could have stayed me from my appointment with destiny. Certainly not the incident in Mexia.

  Yessir, if I had to suggest a single episode in the blood-drenched years between my birth and where I find myself now as an object lesson in how not to live out your days, Mexia might well be the worst of it. Hell, I'm pretty damned certain missionaries could use my Mexia tale as an example of how to scare kids back into the arms of the Lord.

  The tiny settlement was no more than a wide spot in a dirt road when I arrived—kind of community most Texans would refer to as a Saturday afternoon town. Refers to one where folks gather on Saturday, but where there isn't much going on any other time of the week. A place so small, you could miss it even if you didn't blink. Looked like an outstanding spot to lay low at the time.

  A bank, general mercantile, barbershop, livery, six-room hotel, café, four saloons, telegraph office, damn near nonexistent jail, and a church comprised the entire, whole, and complete hamlet. Total population couldn't have amounted to more than two or three hundred on the busiest market day of the year. Best of all, the nearest law was almost forty miles away in Waco.

  I took the best room available at the Metropolitan Hotel. In spite of its impressive name, that's not saying a whole bunch. But it served a single traveler like me well enough. Discovered in pretty short order, from an overly friendly desk clerk named Tobias Greeb, that a nonstop poker game in the Palace Saloon drew semiskilled card benders and some fairly
good money for the patient player.

  Being as how I didn't have anywhere special to go, and had plenty of cash in my pockets, figured I could sleep till noon, have lunch across Front Street at the Crescent Café, play poker for a year, and still have change left even if I lost at every hand. And if the cards fell the way I actually expected, my stash of ready money would grow into an even larger pile for future use.

  Morning after arriving, I strolled two doors down Front Street to the Palace for a gander. An elegant entrance was the grandest thing about the joint. Set of beautifully fashioned mahogany batwing doors greeted thirsty visitors.

  Like many cow-country saloons, the Palace sported a fine-looking bar on the right side of a long narrow room. Tables and chairs sat on a rough-cut board floor and lined the left, no more than three or four steps away from easy access to the liquor. Sign over a separate area at the back of the room indicated it had once been reserved for dancing, but from all appearances, any available women had vamoosed for more rewarding climes. High ceiling and fans cranked by a Mexican, sitting in a corner, offered visitors a nice respite from the outside heat. All around the room, polished spittoons awaited the day's customers.

  Substantial-looking gent behind the bar wore green garters on his arms and had a head like an oiled cue ball. He glanced up when I entered, smiled, and said, "Morning, stranger. Come right in. The Palace is a bit cooler than the street."

  "Nice place you've got here," I said, and slid up to the bar. "Cool, peaceful, solid, like you've been here a spell."

  Bartender smiled. A gold front tooth twinkled as he said, "At the Palace, we like to think of ourselves as small but comfortable, sir. Great place to pass the time, play poker, have a cold beer, or simply visit with friends."

  "Along with all your other good points, cold beer is a mighty fine recommendation, sir."

  "No formality here. Everyone calls me Red. Red Parker." He flashed his sparkling tooth again and added, "Holdover from those bygone days of departed hair."