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

by J. Lee Butts

  Soon as all but the most inquisitive town folk cleared out, I grabbed those shotguns, cocked both barrels on each of them, stepped into the street, and headed for whatever awaited me in the Red Light.

  Two ignorant sons of bitches on the boardwalk didn't even notice me until I stopped in the street right in front of them. Thought at the time that if One-Eyed Frank's blind eye had been working, the whole deal might have played out some different. As it was, I couldn't have been more than fifteen feet from them when Crouch snapped to attention and jumped to his feet. One-Eyed Frank quickly followed.

  Crouch said, "Damned lot of artillery you're a-carryin' today, Moon."

  Frank's only eye bugged out like a frog that some mean-assed kid had just stomped on. He grunted, "What the hell you up to, Deacon?"

  Brought both those twelve gauges up at the same time and said, "You should have left after I shot Grizz. But did you? No. You've been hanging around here for weeks making folks miserable, and now your time has run out. In fact, all the time God allotted you amongst the living is gone, boys. You're staring into the face of your own deaths. I'm here to kill you fellers."

  Manfred Crouch must have owned about two or three more ounces of brains than his companion. Still and all, he had trouble coming to a decision. When he finally did, an uncertain hand darted toward the pistol on his hip. All I can say about the thing is that he needed to be a damned sight faster.

  I snapped both barrels of buckshot on him at the same time. Deafening blast blew so much of his sorry hide onto the Red Light's sun-bleached wall, it looked like someone had applied a real sloppily spattered paint job. Scarlet-tinted chunks of muscle, bone, and guts dripped down the shot-riddled boards and splashed onto the seat of his vacant chair. He squealed like a pig being butchered when all that shot hit him. Then he flopped around like a beached fish for about five seconds. Slung blood, and more gory parts and pieces, all over the place.

  Pitched the used-up shooter aside and turned on One-Eyed Frank. He appeared shocked, amazed, and completely dumbfounded. Such events were not of his understanding. In Frank's pathetic world, no one living would have nerve enough to confront, challenge, and then kill one of his closest friends and boon companions. Man went to quaking all over like someone in the throes of a serious shivering fit of deadly ague.

  He held out hands that quivered and shook in a beseeching motion and yelped, "Wait. Oh, God. Please don't kill me."

  "Too late for begging, Frank. Time to die. Ask God to forgive you for your sorry ways. You've got two seconds."

  "Sweet Jesus," he yelped.

  "Good choice of last words," I said.

  Didn't wait for him to draw. Hell, I didn't wait for him to twitch a finger in the direction of his pistol. Dropped both hammers on him as well. Damn near cut the sorry bastard in half. He was dead before he hit the dusty boardwalk planks. To this day, I'm not for certain whether the buckshot killed him or whether I scared him to death. Let the shotgun slip to the ground, pulled both my pistols, and headed for the Red Light's batwing doors.

  Stopped outside, stepped to the right, and peered inside long enough to let my eyes adjust to the saloon's interior gloom. Hector Pine sat at a table at the far end of a room shaped exactly like the Palace. Got to hand it to the man. He didn't appear the least bit affected by all the gunfire I'd just set loose on his men. Thing that bothered me a bit was the absence of Grizz Jacks. Man was nowhere to be seen.

  Pushed through the batwings and headed straight for Pine. Hadn't taken but about two steps when, quicker than a rattlesnake can strike, his right hand flashed into view. A deafening shot lit the room. Hot slug burned within an inch of my head and nicked my right ear. If I hadn't moved to the left about three inches, I do believe he would have drilled me right in the nose.

  Cut loose with both pistols exactly the way Cutter taught me. Poker chips, cards, and chunks of wood flew into the air in a blizzard of wreckage that came back down like rain in a cyclone. Pine flipped his table over and used the pitiful thing as a shield. He didn't help his losing cause much. I kept walking his direction and thumbed one off for every step I took.

  After that initial flurry, the famed gunfighter never fired another shot. Found him on the floor all chewed up from at least four of the big ole .45 slugs that smashed through his ill-conceived protection and bored holes in his worthless, hell-destined hide.

  Three of Pine's gushing wounds looked fairly puny to me. The one that counted hit him in the upper chest just left of the breastbone. Bright red blood bubbled from his quaking lips as I eased around for a closer look at my handiwork. A fist of iron grasped the dripping shirt where the deadliest bullet pierced him.

  Wandering eyes blinked at me. He gasped, "Who the hell are you?" Long pause before he continued. "Never heard of no Deacon Moon. You're nothin', nobody, from out of nowhere."

  His eyes closed, and I thought he'd passed. About decided to walk away, but they snapped open again and he said, "Now, you done went and kilt me. Hector Pine, famous Texas gunfighter who dispatched more men than Ben Thompson, kilt by a nobody. It ain't right. Goddammit, it ain't fair." Then God grabbed ole Hector and flung his sorry soul to Hell's front gate.

  Reloaded before I sauntered around to the other side of the Red Light's abandoned bar and picked out a fine-looking bottle of whiskey. Poured me a double. Took my time drinking it. Kept thinking maybe ole Grizz would show up, but he never did. As he appeared to have a few nuts loose in his thinker assembly, I was actually reluctant to kill the man. That's why I shot him in his foot in the first place, rather than put him in the ground.

  Year or so later, I heard as how one of those toes I removed had got infected. Seems he'd been laid up in their camp outside of town the day I killed all his pardners. Way the tale went, ole Grizz died about a month later from the festering. Might have been better all the way around if I'd shot him.

  As time passed, and my reputation became known to friends I'd made in Mexia, many of them decried my actions of that day. Some even went so far as to charge that poor ole Hector and his saintly friends had been foully murdered by a man beset with demons and cursed of God. Such talk cut me to the bone. Way I had it figured, those good citizens were freed from a murderous bondage as surly as Moses delivered God's people out of Egypt. Suppose the lesson I learned was that you just can't please anyone, and when you try, the bastards will turn on you the first chance they get.

  I slipped out of Mexia within a week of killing those fellers. Must admit I hated to leave. Had really enjoyed my stay. For the next six months, I lived the way Cutter showed me. Purchased a damned good mule named Beulah, bought the required necessities, tried to avoid towns, and laid low. How was I to know that La Honda Marshal Tom Bankston had put out posters on every tree in South Texas for me, and that Rangers all over the state were looking to kill Eli Gault—or see to it he swung from the nearest tree. Spilled another bucketful of blood before I found out.

  12

  "Oh, please, Nathan. Don't kill me."

  Whole deadly mess started when I woke up one morning, after having lived on the ground for months, and decided it was way past time to spend a few days sleeping in a real bed. A serious bath, clean sheets, rugs on the floor, shades on the windows, some good whiskey, and perhaps a poker game or two, became something of an obsession. I'd been ambling in a general southerly direction for most of my travels, and decided to pull up in Cuero. Town was about the right size—small—and sported the basic amenities I required to satisfy all the itches I felt it necessary to scratch.

  Saw to my animals first. Got me a hotel room, a bath, mighty good café-cooked meal, and purchased all the supplies required if called upon to make a hasty departure. Then I headed for the nearest saloon. The fellowship and stimulus of a friendly game of poker awaited just inside a set of batwing doors.

  Afternoon started out right pleasant. No professional gamblers in evidence. Had the resident cardsharps to myself. Couple of local wranglers, a friendly whiskey drummer, and a pair of bor
ed locals sat in on the game. Didn't take long to realize none of them were any match for me. But I held back on skinning them. Won a few, lost a few. Gained on those fellers just enough so it didn't bother them too much.

  About the time the sun started going down, a real good-looking black-haired gal showed up. Dark-eyed, fiery-lipped, shaped just the right way to make a man want to slap his mama. I saw her when she slipped in the door and kind of edged her way around the wall in my direction. Could tell she was sizing up the potential business. She spotted me from the get-go and, being as how I'd avoided the company of woman for a spell, I made no effort to discourage her attentions.

  Said her name was Ruby. Hell, that was all I needed to know. She sat behind me for about two hours and drank anything I wanted to buy. Every once in a while, she'd lean over, breathe into my ear, let an overanxious hand wander up my leg, and whisper something like, "There's a clean room upstairs, good-lookin'. Big feather bed. Bartender lets me use it when gentlemen like you come to town." Or, "Come on, honey. Leave the cards. Let Ruby show you a good time."

  Well, didn't take a lot of such behavior to get me going. Quicker'n a Texas twister can snuff a match, got to feeling like I had a crowbar in my pocket. Apologized to the other players and excused myself. They all grinned, made shooing motions like they completely understood my situation and the glorious time to be had with that hotblooded gal.

  Couldn't believe it, but the bartender stopped us as we headed for the stairs and made me sign a hotel register. Said it was required by the state. Hell, by that point, my randiness knew no bounds. I would've gladly put my John Henry ,to a contract with Satan for my immortal soul just for a few minutes alone with that heavy-breathing, big-breasted gal. Put myself down as Henry Moon in his book and let Ruby lead me to her place of passionate business.

  Barely got the door closed when that gal jumped on me like a panther in heat. Went to ripping at my clothes. Everything ended up in a pile on the floor beside the bed. My God, but she was one talented whore. Bounced me around that well-used bed like a snot-nosed kid trying to ride the toughest bucker on the ranch. Good Lord, but I do believe to this very instant she had the most talented tongue I've ever come across. Had a way of licking my ear that had me hooting like a barn owl.

  We'd barely finished up, and were about to discuss finances and such, when the door slammed open. Big towheaded son of a bitch carrying an old Walker Colt busted into the room raving like a lunatic. Raised both hands like a man being robbed by a dangerous highwayman.

  He stomped over to the end of the bed, waved his antique pistol around in my face, and yelled, "How dare you take advantage of my wife, sir. You've spoiled the spotless reputation of a good Christian woman. By tomorrow morning, everyone in Cuero will have learned of her fall from the Lord's grace." Then, he turned on Ruby for a second. "We have children at home who've been degraded by your depraved and wanton behavior, woman. How could you destroy the Becker name and ruin our family's reputation in the community in such a whorish manner? May God have mercy on you for such sluttish activities."

  Ruby had snatched the bedcovers up to hide her brazen nakedness. Tears rolled down lust-tinted cheeks as she whimpered, "Oh, please, Nathan. Don't kill me. How could our poor babies grow up shamed with the death of their mother on their innocent heads? I was only trying to get enough money to help save the ranch."

  While I had absolutely no idea at the time what in the green-eyed hell the old badger game involved, I knew something didn't ring true with any of what I was hearing. The whole affair sounded too much like one of Pa's sermons on the evils of sinful behavior and Satan's eventual collection of the debt. Hell, I got the sneaking feeling that just any moment someone would pass the plate and ask me to grab my pants off the floor and pony up whatever I could for a love offering.

  Sure enough, Nathan Becker did exactly that when he stared at his randy wife, assumed a profoundly pathetic look, and said, "Well, my darlin', I suppose forgiveness would be the Christian thing all right." Then he turned on me again. Shook that five-pound man blaster in my face and said, "Your seduction of my formerly chaste spouse will remain a heinous event in my memory, sir. It will most certainly scar my heart for years to come, and heap shame upon the heads of our blameless children. But I think pardon might be the order of the day. That is, if you can come up with three hundred dollars to assuage the grief and humiliation visited upon my fledgling family."

  Incredulous, I said, "Three hundred dollars?"

  "Yes, by God. And if not, I will be forced to kill you for the adulterous behavior the two of you have engaged in this very night. Hell, there ain't a court in Texas would convict me of your bloody death." Ruby immediately went to bawling like a stray calf.

  So, the big, ugly cat had finally escaped the proverbial bag. An evening of innocent pleasure, which started out as a two-dollar romp in the sack with a brazen strumpet, had somehow transformed itself. Now, I was faced with a three-hundred-dollar payment to soften the anguish and disgrace of a devoted mother and wife led astray—led astray by me, no less. And if I didn't come up with the money, Nathan Becker intended to shoot me like a rutting pig. Didn't take long for me to think that one over.

  Tried to sound pitiful and repentant when I said, "I am most willing to pay, sir. Have no desire to die in a bed that still reeks with the musk of unbridled passion." Looked for something in the way of a wince, grimace, or recoil when I referred to the blatant humping his wife had so recently slapped on me. Nothing there. Not so much as a batted eye. "May I retrieve my pants, Mr. Becker?"

  "No tricks, you infernal wife seducer," he snapped.

  "The money's sewn into the waist of my trousers, Mr. Becker. I'll have to cut it out."

  He flipped the pistol barrel at me two or three times, and said, "All right, go ahead, but attempt no tricks, sir. I'm watching, and will have no compunction about blasting trenches in your head at the first sign of treachery."

  Slowly leaned over the edge of the bed and made out as though I intended to recover my discarded clothing. Sneaked a peek, from the corner of my eye, as I scratched around in the pile of garments beside the bed. Becker glanced at Ruby and winked. Silly bastard sealed his fate as far as I was concerned. Snatched one of my .45s from beneath the articles of clothing on the floor.

  When I came up with the pistol in my hand, the surprised shakedown artist looked like the most astonished man alive. The shocked expression on his stupid face lasted for about a second. Just long enough for me to pull the trigger and blast a blue whistler right between his eyes. Slug punched a finger-sized hole in front of his thick skull. Left a second the size of a guinea egg in back when it exited. Blood, bone, hair, and brains splattered the wall behind him like someone had thrown a bucket of paint against it.

  Becker dropped straight to the floor like a gunnysack of rancid cow manure. Ruby went to screeching so loud, people must have heard her in San Antone. Holes in her stupid husband's head sent geysers of hot blood a foot into the air, and sprayed all over everything that wasn't already drenched. Hell of a mess.

  Squealing woman hopped out of bed with the sheet still wrapped around her naked body, fell on poor stupid Nathan's lifeless carcass, and sobbed like the world had just ended. I jumped into my pants, grabbed another gun just in time to greet the bartender and several of the players from the poker table at my door.

  Cocked both pistols and motioned the armed whiskey slinger inside. He carried an ax handle and looked ready to use it on me at the first opportunity. Son of a bitch stood over the oozing body as Ruby continued to wail and said, "You have any idea what you've done, mister?"

  The question struck me as somewhat dim-witted. "Know exactly what I did. Stupid jackass kicked my door in, confronted me with a pistol, threatened my life, and tried to rob me of three hundred dollars. You boys had to have heard the racket from the breakage of the door when he rendered the frame to a pile of splinters, but I didn't see any of you rush up to help me out. So I felt compelled to shoot the bastard befor
e he shot me."

  Bartender pointed at Becker's corpse with his ax handle. "This man was the brother of Texas Ranger Tiger Jim Becker."

  "Never heard of him," I snapped.

  He shook the ax handle at me. "Well, you will, you murderin' son of a bitch. Tiger Jim's a man killer of the first water. He keeps an office right here in town. Ole Tige will have your cojones on a flaming stick before you know what's happened."

  About then, Ruby sprang off the floor like a branded bobcat and jumped on me with all claws out and working. A few minutes before, she'd used them to urge me into the throes of ecstasy. Now, the crazed woman wanted my eyeballs spiked to the end of her fingertips. Put up with about five seconds worth of it, and finally, had to tap her on the noggin with one of my pistol barrels. She went to ground like a wounded dove.

  Pair of yahoos in the doorway leapt across the threshold and started grabbing for their smoke wagons. I ripped off three or four shots, and put both of them down before they'd managed to take two steps.

  Black-powder smoke was on the verge of making it impossible to see more than a foot or two. The noise level had almost deafened me. While I was busy with the idiots from the doorway, the crazed whiskey slinger jumped over Ruby, burst through the curtain of spent powder, and whacked me on the side with his club. I ricocheted off the wall behind the bed, turned, and blasted him into the next world as he raised the stick for another attempt at knocking a sizable hole in my head.

  Figured all that gunfire would surely stir up the entire town. Didn't help that some of the local poker klatch had survived, taken to their heels, and were in the process of rousing the citizenry by yelling their fool heads off. Grabbed up all my belongings, dropped them out the window, and quickly followed.