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

by J. Lee Butts

  Bloodsworth nodded and continued. "Flood created one helluva problem. We waited a few days for the river to drop. But then, everyone on this side woke up one morning and tried to push his herd over at the same time. Don't know to this day how they did it, but boys like Prentiss got 'em across. And then, my God, it took weeks to sort 'em all out once we finally arrived on the north bank."

  Prentiss slapped his hat against a skinny thigh and said, "Damnedest thing I done ever seen. Hope not to see such again."

  Bloodsworth nodded his agreement. "Damn near five hundred head drowned. Cattle was stacked up on the bank like cordwood." Man shook his head, and his chin dropped to his chest as though he was on the verge of tears. Then jerked off his hat and stared at the ground. "Four damned good cowboys perished with 'em. Two of 'em was mine. Never had to bury that many at one time. So, you boys go have fun, but get yourself ready for the Red."

  The boss had me scheduled for an Acre visit that first night. But I went to him and volunteered to stay in camp and work both nights so some of the other drovers could have a little extra fun.

  'Course I wasn't simply being a fine feller. I harbored an ulterior motive for my actions. Didn't want to gamble on the chance someone in town might recognize my face and perhaps link me to Cutter and past events. Such an episode could well have proven neck-stretchingly costly.

  Bloodsworth didn't care one way or the other. Johnson Pratt, the brush popper whose place I took that second night, was thrilled beyond words. He made me a present of a bottle of whiskey for being so nice.

  14

  "I'm in the business of killing . . ."

  Three weeks and a hundred miles past Fort Worth, the herd drew up on the south side of the Red. Entire crew was allowed two hours to visit the rough-and-tumble village of Red River Station. I sat that one out, too. Figured if any well-known gamblers were about, they might somehow mess around and recognize me.

  Most of the boys came back to camp pretty well lit up on rotgut whiskey. They suffered something unmerciful for their fun the next day, but glowingly recalled those stopovers for weeks afterward. Couldn't seem to talk enough about the grand times they'd had in Hell's Half Acre and the Station.

  Along the way from Fort Worth, I'd heard more fearsome nighttime stories about what we faced at the crossing. Kid named Terry Reed, whose twelve-year-old appearance belied an experienced hand, lounged by the fire a week or so before our arrival and said, "I done this 'un before, just like Prentiss. Didn't attend the big drownin' he and Mr. Bloodsworth described, but two year ago, I wuz with the Double D outfit from down Victoria way. When we come on the river, she was all swolled out'n her banks with ragin' water from up north. Silly-assed foreman said he didn't care. Got all red in the face and said we had to move them cattle across right by-God immediate."

  Youngster next to him looked concerned. "Don't know 'bout you fellers, but I cain't swim. Can you swim, Terry?"

  Reed snorted, "Hell, I ain't met a handful of cowboys what can. Anyway, we pushed them poor bawlin' beasts into the river, and everything that can go wrong did go wrong. Lost thirty-some head in less than four hours. Cowboy named Tisdale got snakebit. Cook tried every cure he knowed. Didn't do no good a-tall. Tisdale died a horrible death 'bout a week later. Lot worse than the way Junior bought it. On top of everything else, we spent uncountable hours pulling cows out of the damned quicksand."

  Considerable muttering around the fire came from those like myself who were inexperienced in fording a river like the Red. Reed propped his head in his hand and said, "Gonna have to trust your horse, boys. Pray the river ain't runnin' heavy and brown with water from New Mexico and the Panhandle."

  Bloodsworth, Boots, and an old hand named Cletis Brainerd scouted the river and came back with good news. Crew gathered around the three men and listened as Boots said, "Looks like we've hit it lucky this time. Red's less than a foot deep all the way across. Should be able to walk 'em over with little or no trouble."

  An enthusiastic cheer went up from the crew, but ole Brainerd waved a quieting hand and said, "But don't get careless. Keep your eyes open for snakes and quicksand. Either one of 'em is just as deadly as high water."

  Everything went right fine, until Cookie tried to run the chuck wagon across. Somehow, he managed to find a hole with his left rear wheel. Quicksand grabbed the wheel, bogged it down to the hubs, and wouldn't let go. Wagon lurched over so far, the hubs on the right side almost faced the sky. We unloaded everything that could be reached. Didn't help much. When the oxen strained to pull the wagon loose, they twisted the tongue and broke it off. Sounded like a pistol shot when it snapped.

  Couple of the men, who could boast at least some skill at woodworking, chopped a cottonwood pole and fashioned a new one. Whole herd had crossed by the time those boys got it attached. Crew spent hours digging around the trapped wheel, and finally dragged the wagon to safety on the north side of the river.

  I reined up beside Bloodsworth as he watched the work from horseback. He threw a leg over his saddle horn, rolled a smoke, and took a puff. Turned to me and said, "Man learns pert quick out here that such as this is the way of a cattle drive, Eli. Just when you make the mistake of thinking everything is going along about as well as can be expected, an unforeseen bust-up like this 'un happens."

  "Just never know what God has in store for us, Mr. Bloodsworth," I said.

  "No, we don't, son. But it sure would be nice if we could get through at least one day without some kind of calamity befalling us."

  Suppose he must've prayed on it some. For the next three weeks or so, the days came and went in an exhausting parade of nothing but unparalleled heat, blowing dust, the ass end of tired cattle, and boredom.

  Then, late one afternoon about ten miles south of the Washita, I was riding swing when Prentiss stormed up. Man's excitement almost got the best of him. "Boss wants you up front quick as you can get there. Said to bring your guns and be prepared for a fight."

  I tried to slow him down some. Said, "Where is he, Prentiss? I need to know exactly where you left him."

  Excited brush popper pointed north with a trembling hand. "He's two, maybe three, miles out ahead of the herd. Near half a dozen rough-looking characters done stopped him."

  "You know what they want?"

  He puzzled over the question for a spell before answering. "Not for certain sure, Eli. But if they's like most of that type, they's after as many of our herd as Mr. Bloods-worth's willing to give up."

  "You think they're cattle raiders?"

  "Sure looked the part to me."

  I kicked hard for the chuck wagon. Had rarely carried my weapons since starting the trip. Wrapped and stowed them away from the dust and weather. Usually cleaned and reloaded the whole set at least once a week. Bloods-worth's call from near the Washita was my first chance to earn the extra money he'd promised.

  Got myself armed with everything I owned. Prentiss led the way. Spotted the meeting, and made my nervous guide stay behind. Figured he would just be one more thing to worry about. Five trail toughs carrying guns was plenty.

  Reined up beside my boss about the time a greasy, stinking son of a bitch who looked, and smelled, like a buffalo hunter that'd been dragged through a cesspool said, "Well, that ain't good enough, by God. We want at least a thousand head. A hundred wouldn't be worth our trouble. Just might as well make up your mind to the way things are, you Texican bastard. Give us the cows, or we'll scatter your whole herd all over the Nations. Goddamn Injuns'll have all of 'em et 'fore this time next week."

  Bloodsworth snuck a glance my direction for about a second. I winked, and he turned back to his tormentor. "Like you to meet Eli Gault. Eli, this bag of puss is Jonas Cisco. Most of the five behind him are his brothers. Think that bald son of a bitch is Bucky Grimsley. Nothin' but thieves, the whole damned bunch. I've had dealings with 'em before on previous drives. But this is the first time they've been bold enough to demand a thousand head to let us pass safely."

  Cisco didn't like wh
at he'd heard. "Best watch your mouth, cowman. Hell, mess with me and my hands and I just might take your whole damned bunch. Leave you with nothing but cow chips to pick up on your way back to Texas."

  I had ridden up on my own horse carrying all the armament necessary to rub out the whole damned bunch—to my way of thinking anyhow. Big line back dun I rode was impervious to gunfire. Wouldn't so much as twitch should any shooting occur.

  Wrapped the dun's reins around my saddle horn. Did it as slowly as I could so as not to alarm the foul-smelling puss bag, or any of his equally ugly, malodorous followers.

  Caught Cisco's eye and said, "Problem you've got right now, pardner, isn't how many cows you can get away from here with. Your problem is how you're gonna get away from here alive."

  The oily thief eyeballed me for about a second and turned back to Bloodsworth. "Who the hell's this pup? Does he do all the talkin' for you now, mister?"

  Amos shifted in his saddle. Could tell he was mighty uncomfortable with the whole situation. "Eli hired on and does a special job of work for me, Bucky."

  Cisco, and the four men backing him up shifted their gaze around to me again. "And just what would that be?" he growled.

  Smiled, but didn't blink, when I said, "I'm in the business of killing people like you, Mr. Cisco."

  He threw me a derisive chuckle. "Hell, boy, you think you can scare me? I've squashed more dung beetles like you than I can count on all ten of my fingers, toes, too. Mess with us, and we'll stake both your stupid Texas asses to an anthill and leave you for the buzzards." Once I'd been dismissed, he turned back to Amos. "Now—give us the goddamned cows."

  Well, to my way of thinking, there was no need for the conversation to go any further. So I shot him. Man didn't even have time to be shocked or amazed when the open muzzle of my Colt popped up in his face and delivered a burning-hot chunk of sizzling lead to his grease-covered forehead.

  Bullet hole about an inch over his left eyebrow didn't amount to much. But the one in back, where it came out, opened a crater in his skull that splattered all his friends and family with chunks of bone, brain matter, blood, and gore. Fine mist of the stuff put a hint of copper in the air that drifted up my nose and made me grit my teeth. Slug knocked ole Jonas ass over teakettle. His horse bucked and went to hopping around like a bird after a fat june bug. Dead man landed right at the feet of one of the animals behind him.

  With a pistol in each hand, I thumbed off rounds at those lined up in front of me—so fast the firing sounded like a Gatling gun going off. Blasted all four of them out of their saddles before they even had time to get a grip on their weapons.

  Roar from those long-barreled Colts hadn't yet died away when I stepped down and went about examining the bodies, to make sure I'd for damned certain killed all those two-tailed skunks. First one I came on still breathed. So, I shot him again. Put one right in his worthless noggin. Splattered him all over the ground. Know he was down and couldn't defend himself, but hell, if I'd of let him up, he just might have killed me. Hell of a bloody mess. Blades of grass for fifteen feet in any direction dripped with gore and a variety of body fluids.

  Must admit, though, it surprised the hell out of me when that baldheaded joker, the one Amos called Grimsley, jumped up, remounted, and rode away. Snapped off a shot from the hip, but missed him. Ran back to the dun and pulled my Winchester from its boot. Got behind the horse and used the saddle as a rest. Took so long to line up a good shot, the evil scamp got most of a hundred yards away before I fired the last time. Dropped him like a white-tailed buck running through South Texas scrub country. Big ole .45-60 slug hit the bastard between the shoulder blades. Knocked him over his horse's head like I'd whacked him from behind with a rail-splitting maul.

  Guess I must've lost control about then. Laughed out loud when Bucky the badman bit the dust. Glanced over at Bloodsworth. The stricken, flabbergasted look on his face came as something of a surprise. He motioned toward the corpses, opened his mouth—several times—as though he wanted to say something, but nothing came out.

  Finally, he stepped off his mount like a man under water, removed his hat, and said, "Sweet merciful Jesus, Eli. I ain't never seen nothin' to match this. Heard of such from fellers what fought in the big war. Just never witnessed this many kilt by one man so quick. Goddamn, son."

  Couldn't believe he'd gone soft on me like that. Pointed at the bodies with my pistol and said, "This is what you hired me to do, Amos. What'd you expect? You sent Prentiss for me. Did you believe for a solitary minute that I'd get out here in the middle of nowhere with these thieving killers and try to engage such men in a doily-makin' contest? Came here to kill 'em, and that's exactly what I did."

  Guess my harangue must have caused his spine to suddenly reappear. He glared at me and snapped, "Hell, I don't know exactly what I expected. But, good God, killin' five men sure as hell wasn't it. Just thought maybe you could get 'em under the gun and intimidate 'em a bit. Jesus, what're we gonna do with all these bodies?"

  Took him by the arm and said, "Get a grip, Amos. This isn't a real problem. If I hadn't drilled all of these fellers, you, and any number of your crew, might've ended up dead. No one will miss this bunch. We'll take their saddles and guns. Then we'll bury them right here where they fell, turn their animals loose, and go on our way."

  He looked at me like I'd grown another head. "You can't possibly believe that covering up the killing of five men is that easy, Eli."

  "Oh, yessir. Indeed I do. Look, the herd has to pass over this exact site. Once that happy event occurs, even you and I won't be able to find this spot again. In a week or two, the grass will start to grow back. No one will ever be the wiser. Besides, who in hell cares what happens to scum like these? Bet their mothers won't even miss 'em."

  So, way it all shook out in the end, me, Bloodsworth, Boots, and Prentiss dug one big shallow hole, dumped all five of those fellers in, and covered them up with about two feet of dirt. We kept their guns and saddles. Turned their horses loose to fend for themselves.

  Prentiss watched as the animals headed east. Shook his head and said, "Injuns'll have some of them poor critters roasting over a campfire 'fore tomorrow's sun has a chance to set."

  Amos mumbled, "You're probably right, son." Then he stomped to his horse and rode back to the herd.

  Didn't have any more trouble from that bloody afternoon until we arrived in Dodge. Couple of poor, starving Indians showed up once. Bloodsworth gave them a steer, which they promptly shot and butchered on the spot. Poor beast still quivered when those unfortunate, desperate folk sliced off thick portions. Ate the meat raw. My God, but it was sad to see a once-proud people reduced to such a pitiable state.

  Soon as we crossed the Arkansas and bedded the cattle, the boss paid me off.

  At first I couldn't believe it when he said, "Lazy B's no longer in need of your services, Eli."

  But truth is, I could tell my continued presence made the man mighty uncomfortable. Word of what transpired with the cattle raiders had spread through the crew in spite of the fact that only four of us knew the whole story. Once again, those friends I'd made started treating me different. Some even avoided me. Life tends to go that way when you become known as a man killer. Hell, I didn't care.

  We'd been on the trail for more than two months. Work as a cowboy had proved hard, nasty, and mean. Sipping Kentucky bourbon, while shuffling the pastboards, sure beat hell out of trailing dogies. Now found myself in the Sodom and Gomorrah of the plains. Wanted me a hot bath, clean clothes, a randy woman, and a warm spot at a poker table.

  Hot diggity, damn! Heaven on earth!

  15

  "I want him dead, dead, dead . . ."

  According to some of the older cowboys I'd met while in the employ of Mr. Amos Bloodsworth, Dodge City started life as a dismal collection of mud-daubed log cabins and shabby tents. By 1880, when I arrived, the overall look and feel of the sprawling "Babylon of the plains" had changed considerably. Hotels, saloons, dance halls, barbersh
ops, general mercantile stores, boot makers, and shoemakers abounded. Frenzied construction appeared never ending. Hell's fire, a feller could buy anything his heart desired and his pocketbook could stand—from the company of a willing woman to fine Frenchified brandy. My God, what more could an energetic young man with four months salary burning holes in his pants crave?

  Arrived in town, got the animals settled, and established myself on the first floor of a three-story hotel not far from a likely-looking dance hall and gambling establishment named Varieties. Found out later the owner was none other than George Masterson—brother of the famed Bat Masterson.

  Staked out a chair at a table near the bar, and immediately went to adding as much as possible to my already thick pile of loot. Found out right quick the number of trail hands eager to throw their hard-earned money away on a bad hand of poker surpassed all my wildest imaginings. By the end of the third week in Dodge, I'd almost doubled my stash.

  Got to know just about everyone who was anyone, including the more famous Masterson, during my six-month sojourn there. Gamblers, gunmen, store owners, hotel operators, and lawmen became my boon companions and valued acquaintances. Didn't take me but about a heartbeat to realize the town was almost smothered in an abundance of law, but damned short on anything like order.

  My most important social contact, however, wasn't of the hairy-legged category. Nope, had been in town less than a week when a blond-haired, blue-eyed gal named Trixie Calhoun blew so much smoke up my skirt I actually came to believe she cared. Took a while for me to learn the eternal fallacy of such misguided beliefs.

  We met during one of my frequent visits to a smaller but nonetheless interesting watering hole named the Lame Dog Saloon. Gal brushed her ample hip against mine, fluttered long eyelashes my direction, and in less time than it'd take to blow out a lamp, we were in my bed humping like crazed weasels. Next morning, she moved all her belongings in, and stayed with me until I left town.