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

by J. Lee Butts

  "Bet it was a sight to behold," I said.

  "Came down to my shoulders and curled like a baby's. Women loved it."

  I raised my hands as if giving up on a fight. "Believe every word, friend. What about one of your cold beers?"

  "Was just before telling you all about that. Had a ten-foot-deep cellar dug out back when refrigeration arrived in Waco. Line it with fifty-pound blocks of ice, brought in by wagon twice a week. No brag or bluster to say I've got the frostiest beer in these parts. Ain't another establishment in town can declare as much."

  He toweled off a spot on the bar in front of me, drew a chilly mug of golden goodness, winked, and said, "Enjoy."

  Figured there was no reason to use my real name, so I offered my hand and said, "Henry Moon, Red. Here to indulge my weakness for a little poker. Should events work out the way I hope, might even settle in for an extended visit." We shook and were good friends from then on.

  He pointed to a table in the far corner, next to the former dance hall entrance. "Best spot is yonder, Mr. Moon. Take your beer and have a seat. I'll bring over a bowl of roasted peanuts. Players usually start drifting in around ten. Think you'll find the society at the Palace most cordial."

  By the end of that first week, Red Parker's prediction had proven absolutely accurate. Men from every imaginable walk of life gathered by early afternoon for an agreeable round of cards, friendly association, and a taste of John Barleycorn. Cowhands, a banker, a telegrapher, clerks, and farmers appeared at one time or another. They came and went as singles and in pairs. Some played all afternoon and into the night. Some could only sit in for a few hours. Many flopped into their chairs covered with a heavy layer of dust from a day's hard work, while others were scrubbed pink and smelled of fragrant toilet waters.

  Had been at my chosen profession but a few days when several of the regular players invited me to visit their church for Sunday services. On an impulse, I decided to attend. My return to the bosom of the Lord proved more inspirational than I could have imagined. A number of the congregation's lovely young women added considerably to my sincere feelings of being uplifted. They usually lifted me up during secret visits to my room, between midnight and four in the morning. There were times during some of those passionate dances when I would have sworn I saw God.

  The experience of being back in the familiar territory of Christian fellowship proved so elevating, I felt a new outfit was in order. Cutter's cowboy duds had grown a bit out of place for my purposes. Decided a churchgoing gambler should dress the part. Visited Harlan's Mercantile the next day, and purchased two stylish-looking black suits, six new white shirts, a red-blue-and-black tie, and a Sunday-go-to-meeting hat. Usually sat on the front pew, and within a month, almost everyone in town called me Deacon Moon.

  The days passed most pleasantly for more than six months. Before I realized what had occurred, my routine had become so congenial that the lethal and blood-splattered turmoil of the past faded to a seldom-visited spot in my quickly healing memory.

  Every morning, I usually ate a hearty breakfast at Carlotta Roberts's Crescent Café. Jolly, and stout from sampling her own cooking, the lady greeted all my visits as though she'd found a long-lost son. By noon, I'd taken up my favorite spot at the Palace, and on Sundays, the Reverend Silas Castleberry hit me with a healthy dose of hellfire and brimstone.

  Suppose the best word to describe my situation would be contented. Eli Gault was contented for the first time in his chaotic life. But, as old-timers like to remind us, just when you think life can't get any better, God has a habit of setting your head to ringing like a tenpenny nail hit with a ball-peen hammer.

  Happened one lightning-spiked night when a change for the worse blew through the Palace's front door in the form of four slicker-draped, soaking-wet strangers. Discovered later the leader of the bunch's name was Hector Pine and, of the three friends who accompanied him, it would have been difficult to determine which man could boast of the most belligerent disposition.

  Soon as the angry-browed quartet bellied up to the bar, Pine bellowed, "Bring me and my friends a drink, you lazy bastard, and be damned quick about it."

  More than friendly enough from my viewpoint, Red said, "No need to shout. My pleasure to serve you, sir."

  Stranger wrestled a cavalry-model Colt from under his rain garb and laid the seven-and-a-half-inch barrel across Red's bulbous nose. Everyone at the table with me heard the bone crack all the way across the room. Blood spurted from a nasty cut left by the pistol's ejector rod as Red's eyes flipped into the back of his head. He leaned against the sturdy back bar, grabbed a bar rag from his waistband, and clamped it over the gushing wound.

  Cliff Stoops, a fearless ranch hand who sat beside me, said, "No need for such behavior in here, you son of a bitch. You want to show your ass, take it across the street to the Red Light. Drunken scum over there like your type."

  When the leader of the group turned from the bar, the others came around with him like mechanical figures on the front of a cuckoo clock. One-eyed feller closest to our table cocked his head to the side and growled, "Best keep that lip of yer'n buttoned, you shit-kicking bastard. Otherwise, Grizz here might take offense." He placed a hand on the arm of the monster to his left, who giggled like something dangerous and insane.

  Red tried to smooth the situation over. He ran around the bar, held up a calming hand, and through the blood-soaked towel still held tightly to his nose, snuffled, "Gentlemen, gentlemen. No harm done. It was my fault. Didn't mean to sound uppity, sir. Don't want no trouble in the Palace. Please accept my most humble apology."

  Weasely-looking ruffian at the opposite end of the bar from where Mr. One Eye stood said, "You cornpone-eatin' chicken wranglers obviously don't know who you're dealin' with. My name's Manfred Crouch."

  Got the impression he expected us all to know him and fear his reputation. Sounded right belligerent to me. When no one responded, Crouch hooked a thumb at his leader. "This here's Hector Pine. Feller on his right's Grizz Jacks. And my friend with the patch is One-Eyed Frank Troy. Sure you've all heard of us. We're a right bad bunch, loaded for bear and lookin' for trouble."

  No doubt about it, they damned sure were. I could tell by the glint in their blank, dead eyes the Pine bunch wanted to kill somebody. And it didn't really matter who.

  The Palace got real quiet. All of a sudden, no one from Mexia wanted to add anything to the conversation. Not sure exactly what came over me. Started at my toes and burned a hot path all the way to the sweatband in my hat. Those bastards had been in my presence less than five minutes and I'd heard everything I ever wanted from them from that moment until the Rapture. Besides, they'd interrupted my game, destroyed the fellowship I'd grown to value, spoiled for a fight, and on top of everything else, guess I'd been a well-behaved Christian feller for way too long. Something hot and deadly flared in my guts.

  Carefully checked to make sure all my pistols rested in the right places and were easily reached. Hip gun, belly piece, and backup felt loose and ready to deal death and destruction when called upon.

  Slipped icy fingers around the grips of my crossover gun, pushed my hat to the back of a cold, sweat-drenched head, and said, "Do believe it best for you gentlemen to take your business elsewhere. Whatever tale you've got to tell, you can do it walking."

  Soon as I finished, everyone at my table stood and moved to spots they considered safer. The weasel snapped to attention like he'd been slapped by a ten-year-old girl. "Didn't you hear me? Thought I done warned you that we're dangerous men."

  Stood and pulled my suit coat back. Dressed in black from head to foot, have to admit I must have appeared quite a dangerous-looking figure. My bone-handled pistols damn near glowed in the lamplight. Hell, the way I figured it, those idiots would have a helluva tough time getting weapons from under their rain slickers. It's one thing to buffalo a bartender when you've got plenty of time to do it. Something else altogether to face down a man who just might shoot hell out of you, then stomp you
r sorry ass like a gob of hocked-up spit.

  Ignored the toady and stared right into Pine's lifeless eyes. "You arrogant bastards interrupted my poker game. Whacked a friend of mine across his face for no good reason. Now you're working on bulling everyone in the room, all in less than five minutes. Figure your next move has got to be an effort to intimidate the entire town. Gotta hand it to you boys. You're nervy sons of bitches all right."

  He didn't waste any real effort thinking much about a quarrelsome response. Real low, Hector Pine said, "You think you can take all four of us, mister?"

  "Way you boys are dressed right now, I could take the four of you and not even break a sweat." Dropped my voice to the point where it sounded like I spoke from the bottom of an empty rain barrel. "Consider this an invitation, Pine. Any of you who wants, just go right ahead and pull one of those smoke wagons. I'll kill the four of you where you stand. First man who moves causes all of you to get dead, right here, right now."

  God Almighty, there's nothing like having death walk up and kiss you on the cheek to get a man's attention. Ever so slightly, Pine's eyes flickered. One who called himself Crouch weaved back and forth, started to stammer something, and was waved to silence by his leader. Grizz Jacks looked like a confused child. One-Eyed Frank had the red-faced appearance of a man whose head might explode from an overabundance of uncontrolled thought.

  Pine said, "Don't think I got your name, mister."

  "Deacon Moon," I lied.

  "We ain't never heard of you neither," snapped Crouch.

  "All you need to know about me is that you've disturbed my evening's entertainment, attacked one of my friends, and that I'm the man who will kill you tonight if you push it. Appears to me you boys are on a mission to meet Satan. Way it's raining right now, tomorrow would be a sorry day to get buried. But I can sure as hell make arrangements for your funerals."

  One-Eyed Frank mumbled, "Ain't nobody a-buryin' me tomorrow."

  I should have let it go, but the Devil got into my mouth again. Said, "Well, Frank, that's a good idea. I can see to it that you don't get buried tomorrow Might have some friends hang your butt-ugly ass on the hitch rack out front for a week or so. Take a few pictures of you. Make you famous. Wait till you start to rot and stink a bit. Maybe feed your maggoty remains to some pigs."

  The one they called Grizz gritted his teeth so loud, it sounded like a squirrel breaking pecans. His massive mitts clenched and unclenched. He pawed at the floor like an angry animal, snorted like a bull, and took a step my direction. Had my belly gun up and shot him in a foot the size of a schoolhouse dictionary so fast, I don't think any of those other jackasses even realized what had occurred at first.

  Ole Grizz grabbed his injury as a geyser of blood spewed into the air, and dropped to the floor like a felled tree. He rolled around in the sawdust, peanut shells, and tobacco spit, then went to screaming like a little girl. Bet he knocked over ten or fifteen spittoons, a couple of tables, and God knows how many chairs. The thunderous explosion and cloud of rolling smoke finally got the others looking my way.

  By the time the poor stunned yahoos glanced up from their wounded friend, I had both pistols out, cocked and ready to deal out some real pain. Took everything I could do to keep from making good on my earlier promise.

  Sweet Jesus, but I wanted to kill the hell out of those sorry wretches more than anything I'd wanted in a long time. And I seriously considered mowing them down like ripe wheat.

  But Reverend Castleberry's most recent sermon still rang in my ears. That past Sunday, he had preached on the joy of Christian forgiveness, and how much closer we moved to the Lord's right hand by having mercy on our enemies.

  I had to yell over all the screeching from their wounded friend. "Doctor has an office next to the mercantile across the street. If my aim was true, Grizz should be missing two or three toes. Get him to the doc right now, and most likely he won't have to take your compadre's foot off."

  Kept them under the gun as they gathered the wounded beast up and headed for the door. Between Grizz's toes and Red's nose, gory splatter decorated damn near half the floorboards on my end of the saloon. In spite of the demonstration he'd just got of my skills, Hector Pine turned as his gang reached the door and said, "This ain't the end of it, Moon. We'll be back."

  Laughed when I said, "Well, at least one of you'll be on crutches. Take my advice, Pine, do your drinking at the Red Light. Stay out of the Palace. Otherwise, I'll be forced to finish what you bastards started here tonight."

  Funny thing about shooting people. The act has a tendency to make other folks afraid of you once word gets around you're capable of dealing out death, or anything close to it. My new friends looked at me differently after that night's event. Treatment became more deferential. Men I'd never spoken with tipped their hats on the boardwalk. Women hid their faces behind fans and skittered away. More than a few of Mexia's residents even seemed afraid of me, which is not at all what I ever wanted.

  I cannot blame them for their obvious feelings or unspoken questions, because the incident in the Palace simply announced the beginnings of worse things to come. I had sincerely hoped Pine and his bunch would reconsider the threat he'd made and leave town once their foot-shot amigo received proper medical care. Unfortunately, my heartfelt wishes never saw the light of a peaceful day.

  The Pine gang took up semipermanent residence at the Red Light Saloon, and menaced anyone passing from chairs they placed on the boardwalk out front. And for the next two months, hardly a day passed that another incident in a litany of brutality didn't surface that could be laid at their evil feet. Worst of all, their bullying behavior began to have an unfavorable effect on me.

  Cletis Hooper, a cowhand from the Double D Ranch, probably put it best. He came in one day, had a beer on me, and said, "Folks are afraid to associate with you any longer, Deacon. We've got badmen roaming our streets that have no hesitation dealing out punishment for being seen with you, and no law to correct the problem. Hell, I might well be taking my life in my own hands for drinking this beer."

  Turned over another card in my endless solitaire game and said, "Any of them bother you yet, Cletis?"

  "No, but that don't mean much. That one-eyed son of a bitch caught Banker Willis on the street yesterday and pistol-whipped the hell out of him. They's been other such incidents that involved men who've sat at this table. Hell, you're aware of them. Sooner or later, one of those evil bastards will kill someone. If that ain't a lead-pipe cinch, you can piss in my hat and I'll eat it, band, feathers, and all."

  Leaned back in my chair and threw my cards on the table. "Thing that puzzles me is why Pine and the rest don't just get it over with and brace me. I'm easy enough to find. So far, they've not so much as directed a wayward word at me since I shot three of their idiot friend's toes off."

  As he carefully rolled a handmade, Cletis said, "You know how roving toughs are, Deacon. They always pick on the folks that most likely won't fight back." He lit up and went on between puffs. "Far as the Pine boys are concerned, you've already proved you're a dangerous man. Gonna take a spell of hounding the hell out of others before they grow enough nerve to confront you again."

  Laid awake that night and thought it all out. I'd been in Mexia going on nine months, and hated the prospect that I might have to leave. Most part of two years had passed since I'd gone running. Liked my tiny spot of peaceful life. Didn't cotton much to giving it up. I especially hated the prospective loss of a moneymaking game in a friendly establishment, and willing girls from the church who liked to visit me in my hotel room on moonless nights.

  But something had to be done. Since just about everyone considered me responsible for the town's unwarranted persecution, I came to the conclusion that Hector Pine and all his cronies would have to die. Hell, I was just the man who could put them in the ground, and from all available evidence, virtually everyone in town expected me to do exactly that.

  Next morning, I visited Charlie Harlan's store and purchased two s
hort-barreled coach guns and several boxes of shells. He eyeballed me in a kind of strange way and said, "Never sold a man two at the same time, 'less he planned on riding shotgun for a stage line."

  "Well, Charlie," I said, "I don't plan to guard mail or gold shipments. Gonna use these big poppers to get rid of a nest of rats."

  He smiled. "Nasty critters, ain't they?"

  "They are at that, and I plan to clean 'em out."

  Sat down that night after a profitless evening at the Palace, dismantled each of my pistols, then carefully cleaned, oiled, and tuned them to deadly perfection. Packed all my other gear, stretched out, and got myself a good night's sleep.

  Dressed in one of my new black suits. Had a fine breakfast the next morning. Went back to my room and took a nap. Half hour before noon, I awoke refreshed and ready to do the Lord's work. Glanced out my hotel window before I headed for the street. Spotted Manfred Crouch and Frank Troy in chairs propped against the wall on either side of the Red Light's entrance. Couldn't see Pine or Jacks, but it didn't matter. Pine rarely came out of the Red Light, and I had no doubt that as soon as I'd killed the two on the boardwalk, their friends would show up.

  Hefted a shotgun in each hand and made my way to the boardwalk. Propped the big blasters against the wall. Grabbed the first kid who passed. Said, "You want to make a dollar, son?"

  "Sure. But could you tell me what I have to do for it first?"

  Handed him the coin and said, "Easy work. Go up and down the boardwalk. Tell any of the town folk you meet that Deacon Moon said for everyone to get off the street."

  He rolled the coin in his fingers. "That all?"

  "Stay away from the Red Light. Don't say anything to the men out front. Got it, son?"

  "Yes, sir, I got it."

  Pulled me up a chair and watched as the ragged scamp tore off running. Took him almost twenty minutes, but once the word got to spreading, Crouch and One-Eyed Frank soon found themselves on the street alone. Death was coming after them, and the poor bastards were too stupid to understand why they were almost the only living people on the street.