by J. Lee Butts
He said, “I’ll bet Rix and the devil are laughing about his tall tale right now, while he’s cookin’ in Hell.”
Afternoon of the third day, we found Carlton waiting for us in the middle of an almost invisible wagon road. Leaf-littered path dropped sharply into a tree- and scrub-covered basin atop a steep sandstone cliff, overlooking the river.
Crept up on the rugged remains of a Texas & Pacific Railroad boxcar. A smoking stovepipe poked through its roof. Rope enclosure at one end of the well-used structure held near a dozen horses. Light breeze blew our direction and heightened the most glaring feature of the place—its odor. Smell could make a man’s nose hairs curl up like corkscrews.
“Gamy, ain’t it?” Carlton quipped.
Nate rubbed his face and eyes with the back of his hand. “It’s a sight more’n gamy. This place stinks like somebody just set fire to a wet buffalo.”
We lay on our stomachs on a low rise, about sixty yards away, and scanned the smelly place through Carl’s long glass. No discernible activity around the corral. But we could hear loud, angry-sounding voices coming from inside the makeshift hideout.
“How do you reckon a railroad car got way the hell out here in the woods?” Nate wondered aloud, as he handed the glass my direction.
Carl answered for both of us when he said, “Ain’t no real way of tellin’. But from all appearances, she’s been sittin’ there a spell. Paint’s faded and flaked pretty bad, and that appears to be creeping rot over on the end where they’re keepin’ the horses.”
“Sure is ripe, ain’t it?” I said.
Carl let out a giggling snort. “Can’t imagine what the stink must be like inside for it to be so powerful all the way over here. Smells like a well-used pile of sheepherder’s socks. Any luck, maybe the wind’ll shift and blow it back toward the river.”
Nate rolled onto his back and stared at the tops of the trees. “Had to have been one heckuva job draggin’ that thing all the way out here, don’t you think? Texas & Pacific’s tracks are at least ten miles south. Sure as the devil wouldn’t want to try it myself.”
Seemed he just couldn’t turn loose of the mystery. Got his attention back on the problem at hand when I hissed, “That’s Maynard Dawson who just came out the door, boys.”
Quickly handed the scope back to Carlton. He snapped it to full length. “Yep, ain’t no way to miss a six-and-a-half-foot-tall, one-eyed humpback. That’s the man himself, all right. Means the rest of them murderin’ skunks shouldn’t be far away. With any luck, maybe we’ve cornered all of ’em in the same hole. Aw, sweet bleedin’ Christ, look at that.”
Dawson lumbered down a set of wobbly plank stairs and headed across an open area on the opposite end of the boxcar and away from the corral. Man hadn’t gone more than a dozen steps when he started jerking at the front of his pants. Stopped about twenty yards from the rugged living quarters and squatted over a barely detectable trench.
Carlton collapsed the spyglass and covered his face with his hat. “Well, that’s way too disgustin’ for me, fellers,” he moaned. “Never did have much inclination for watchin’ a fuzzy bear do his business in the woods. Course we could go ahead and shoot him. Mere thought of such an event seems kind of like poetic justice, to me. Be right satisfyin’ to watch ole Maynard pitch over into a stinky new and fresh deposit of his own filth.”
Nate shook Carl out of his hat. Two more of the drygulchers stumbled into the open air and stretched like waking animals, fresh from a long, cold winter in their dens. Each of them carried his own whiskey bottle.
“You recognize these boys, Marshal Cecil?”
“It’s the Doome brothers, Rufus and Jethro. Suckin’ on who-hit-John a mite early—as usual.”
“How do you tell ’em apart?” I asked.
“Other than Jethro’s clubfooted limp, you can’t. Don’t know as anyone can. They ain’t really twins. Way I heard the story, there’s a year, or two, of difference in their ages, but you’d never know it by just lookin’ at ’em.”
“Well,” I said, “now all we lack is for Charlie Storms to show his ugly face, and we can get this dance started.”
Barely got the qualifier out of my mouth, when Storms staggered to the doorway. He leaned against the frame and didn’t appear inclined to follow his friends to the slit trench for what turned into a group squat.
“Gonna be better if we wait till they’re all bunched up together again,” Carl said. “Even better still if they go back inside. Then we can surround their foul-smelling nest and shoot it all to pieces with them in it.”
Each of us had a rifle, shotgun, three pistols, six sticks of dynamite, and all the ammunition a man could possibly burn up. We patiently waited—and watched—as the objects of Heaven’s forthcoming wrath finished their twalet and milled around near the shabby shelter’s front door. They smoked, argued, drank, cursed one another, and almost came to blows, at least twice, before angrily stumbling back inside and slamming the door.
“Now’s the time, boys. Nate, I want you to stay here. Carl, make your way around back and close off any escape toward the river. I’ll move in as close as I can to the front. Don’t detect any windows, or other openings. Can’t see as how there’s any way they’ll even know we’re in the vicinity till we call ’em out.”
“Then what?” Nate wondered aloud.
“We’ll wait five minutes for Carl to get settled. Once I’ve given them a chance to throw down their weapons, count off exactly ten more seconds. Then pour the lead to ’em. No doubt in my mind, they’ll fight. This bunch has left too many horrifically abused bodies in their wake. Ain’t a one of ’em gonna go easy.”
Carl chuckled and snorted, “Sounds good to me.” He rolled to his feet and slipped, silently, into the thick stand of oak trees and stunted bushes off to our left.
“Keep your eyes open, Nate. Stay behind this rock over here. Don’t want you shootin’ me by accident, or getting killed yourself. Carl and I’ve already lost enough friends chasing this gang of people-crucifying monsters.”
As I went into my Comanche tiptoe, he whispered at my back, “Don’t worry ’bout me, Hayden. You be careful yourself. See you when this dance is finished.”
Rough-cut, chopped, and split logs, piled shoulder high, were stacked less than twenty yards from the front of the bandit den. Figured the Dawson bunch used that jumbled mound of lumber for their cache of firewood. Appeared the perfect place for me to take shelter.
Crept up and scratched a comfortable spot behind the crudely heaped timbers. Laid out everything just the way I wanted on half of a split log. Waved to Nate. Waited till I felt like Carlton had likely built a nest and settled in. Then, I figured it was time to open the ball on those ole boys.
Stood behind my firewood fort with the Winchester propped on my hip and yelled, “Maynard Dawson, Charlie Storm, Rufus and Jethro Doome. This is Hayden Tilden speaking. You men are surrounded by a posse of deputy U.S. marshals. Come out with your hands raised or be prepared to suffer the consequences of your decision.”
Barely got the last word out of my mouth when hidden gun ports all along the front of that tarantula’s den opened up. Ducked as a flaming barrage of lead blasted my kindling stronghold and sent showers of oak splinters flying in all directions. Sounds, from that bunch of three-tailed skunks laughing like loons, got to my ringing ears, in spite of all the gunfire.
Waited till I felt pretty sure I could hear Carlton peppering those polecats from behind. Let ’em have it with the .45-70. Massive chunks of lead I sent their way sliced through the side of that boxcar like I was cutting warm butter with a hot knife.
In spite of the fact that they outnumbered us, we gave as good as we got for about half an hour. Then, Carlton must have grown a bit impatient and decided to force the issue to some kind of resolution.
Knew something special was coming when all the horses bolted from the makeshift pen. Less than a minute later, that entire end of the rough hideaway erupted in a thunderous explosion.
Dawson flew end-over-end like a wounded dove for nigh on fifty feet. Landed on his ample rump right in front of my woodpile shelter with his back to me. Stunned, he shook his melon-sized head, rolled to one side, and attempted to stand. I watched, amazed, as he rose on less than cooperative knees, and then actually managed, somehow, to get upright.
Couldn’t believe the obviously staggered man had kept from being killed. He swayed in front of me like a tree in a windstorm. Drunkenly, the stunned killer snatched up a pair of pistols, twirled around, and ripped off half-a-dozen wild shots.
Got the groggy outlaw’s head lined up in my sights, but before I could drop the hammer on him, Nate Swords nailed the humpbacked scamp four times—dead center. Each separate chunk of lead sent Dawson a staggering step backward and caved his chest in until he appeared on the verge of hugging himself. My new partner’s last shot knocked the stumbling murderer onto his back.
Dawson lay still for a second, or so, and then began flopping around. Surprised the hell out of me when he sat up again. The .45-70 slug I delivered to his pea-sized brain finally ended any hope he might have harbored for another day amongst the living. His saddle-thick skull exploded like a blood-filled, rotten egg thrown against the wall of a chicken house. Bullet knocked him flatter than a desert horned toad run over by a stagecoach in Arizona.
Forty-foot flames shot from the blasted portion of the boxcar hidey-hole. Loud popping and crackling noises, amidst the inferno, competed with collapsing timbers, screaming men, and continued gunfire from inside and outside the burning structure.
I was in the process of reloading my rifle, when the Doome brothers stepped onto the wobbly porch. Acted like it was Sunday afternoon and time had come for their weekly stroll to church. Both men carried long-barreled shotguns and brought all four loads to bear in my direction.
Brother on my right yelled, “We’re gonna kill the hell out of you, Tilden.”
Other one threw his head back and cackled like a madman. “Then we’ll nail you to the nearest tree. Set you to fryin’ in your own juice. Brag on it for years to come.”
Dove for cover as heavy-gauge buckshot splattered everything around me. The woodpile erupted in torrent of splintered chips, dirt, and lead. Heard those big poppers clatter to the ground, along with a flurry of gunfire from Nate’s direction.
When one of the Doome boys cried out in pain, I stood. Figured Nate must have found the range. Spotted Carlton behind a tree off to my right. He’d worked a path all the way around the devastated, smoldering wreck, and pumped shells through a rifle as fast as he could work the lever.
Second Doome boy screamed and grabbed at his side. “Damn, that hurt,” he yelped.
“They’re killin’ us, brother,” the first one hollered.
Between the three of us marshals, we riddled the Doomes, and the remaining part of their hideout, with so much concentrated gunfire, you could easily have read the warrants for their arrest through their perforated hides. The bullet-riddled bodies bounced off the wall, flopped like rag dolls.
Dropped my Winchester and grabbed the Greener. As I did, the Doome boys went down on their dead faces like frozen anvils falling in a Montana well.
Moved from behind my cover and took a dozen, or so, steps toward the dead men. Came near making a fatal mistake when I turned to check on Nate and Carlton.
’Bout the time my attention swung back around on those dead outlaws’ blazing roost, Charlie Storms charged through the smoke and fire, jumped over the still-fresh, blood-squirting bodies of Rufus and Jethro, and headed straight for me. He had a whiskey bottle corked with flaming rags in each hand.
“You done went and kilt all my friends, you badge-wearin’ bastard. Gonna cook you alive,” he screamed. Then he pitched one of those crude bombs my direction.
Glowing bottle flew over my head and ruptured in a thump of broken glass and flaming liquid that instantly covered the entire stack of firewood. Strong smell of coal oil attacked my nostrils. Instantaneous heat flashed across my back as the fast-moving blaze ate its way into the stack of dried timber.
All three of us opened up on the crazed killer at the same time. Brought my shotgun around and fired at the hand holding the remaining bomb. Storms attempted to throw the thing at the exact instant I cut loose on him.
Roar from my big blaster, and his left hand instantly vanished in a bloody, vaporous mist. Some of the shot must have hit the bottle. Glass container ruptured in a cascade of sparkling amber slivers. Contents flew all over a stunned Charlie Storms—and ignited. Turned him into a human torch in an eye blink. He screeched like a strangled cat, and staggered my direction.
Carlton joined me as I stepped aside and watched the burning man flail at the flames and fall to the ground, roll around, and throw dirt on himself. Didn’t do much good. Canvas coat Storms wore burst into flames as well, and simply made his situation even worse. He pushed himself onto his knees and ripped at the flaming jacket with one burning hand. His hair, eyebrows, pants, even his boots blazed.
Nate strolled up, and we all watched in amazement as ole Charlie the crucifier finally managed to rid himself of the charred coat, and collapsed into a smoldering, stinking heap. Took about another minute for the coal oil to completely burn itself away.
Storms rolled onto his back and let out a pitiable moan. Barely heard the hoarse whisper when he croaked, “Kill me. Please. Put an end to it.”
Carlton heard him—plain as day. Stomped over to the crispy bastard’s side and shot back, “Man like you don’t deserve a quick death, Charlie. Hope it takes a week for you to pass.”
Nate pulled at my sleeve. “We can’t let him die like this no matter what he did. Hell, Hayden, I wouldn’t let a mangy dog go out in such an awful manner.”
No doubt about it, the coal-oil bath had reduced Charlie Storms to a might sorry state. Fire had burnt off every hair on his head, and cooked the skin off his face, arms, one remaining hand, chest, and back. Looked like pork cracklin’s rolled up all over him. Beneath the layer of seared hide, raw, bloody flesh bubbled and oozed. Even worse, his eyeballs had ruptured. All that liquid had hit his head first and flowed right down to his feet. The heat naturally traveled upward, once it burst into flame, and turned him into a human bonfire.
Pulled my cross-draw pistol and shot Storms between the eyes—twice. Carlton jumped like I’d put a bullet in his head. Nate nodded his approval, then wandered back toward the spot where we’d left our animals.
Carl shook his head. “You are truly somethin’, Tilden. Wasn’t kiddin’ when I said what I did. We should’ve just rode off. Left him in agony, for as long as it took, till God came to end his sorry life.”
Flipped the loading gate open on my pistol and started to reload. “You’re right, Carl. That’s exactly what we most probably should’ve done. But I’ll tell you, my friend, the feeling I just got from shooting the hell out of him gives me no end of personal satisfaction. Maybe now Billy, Hamish, and all those poor women he killed can rest easier. Think I’ll go to my grave with a smile on my face over this one’s passing.”
We rounded up enough horses to transport all the bodies back to Fort Worth. Drew quite a crowd when we pulled up in front of Sam Farmer’s office. He and his deputies stood in the street, flabbergasted at the havoc we’d brought down on the Dawson bunch.
“My Lord,” Farmer muttered. “My sweet Lord. You killed ’em all.”
“Yes, we certainly did,” I replied. “Bad boys put up one blistering gunfight. But they’re dead now. As a consequence, you and the good citizens of Fort Worth won’t have to worry about finding any more women nailed to trees and burned alive.”
Found out there was a sizable pot of money posted on individual members of the
gang. Doome boys brought us almost two thousand dollars, by themselves. By the time we added somewhat lesser amounts for Dawson, Storms, and Cotton Rix, the bloody trip to Hell’s Half Acre proved right profitable.
Three of us headed back to Arkansas considerable better off, financially, than when we arrived. Nate said he’d never seen that much cash money, in hand, at one time in his entire life.
Soon as we hit the M. K. & T. line, near Sherman, I flagged the Flyer down and sprang for transportation of our horses and ourselves all the way to Checotah. Couldn’t wait to get back to Fort Smith and the loving affection of my dear Elizabeth.
EPILOGUE
SO, THERE YOU have it, friends. All happened so long ago. Nowadays, I’m condemned to lie here in my bed with General Black Jack Pershing sleeping beside me, so old I can barely feed myself.
But age and deteriorating health hasn’t changed my outlook, all that much. I still have passionate feelings about lethal brutes like Charlie Storms. Fact is, my attitudes might have even hardened some over the passing years. Charlie, and anyone like him far as I’m concerned, needed to die. Carlton and me felt it was our duty to accommodate him, and all those others Satan had a soul-stealing interest in.
Today, unfortunately, all the hand-wringers would tear up and blubber about how sad it was that poor ole Charlie’s mental illness had taken over and caused him to crucify and set fire to near a dozen innocent souls. Then, they’d set him up in a nice hospital room and see to his aid, comfort, and medical needs till he finally passed on to a just and sulfurous reward. Makes me sick at my stomach just thinking about how gutless society has become when the question of what to do with murderers, thieves, and evil bastards rears its many-tentacled head.
Have to admit, there was one good thing that came out of the Storms business. Got back to Fort Smith and slipped in on Elizabeth at the store. As usual, that beautiful girl had her head in a bookkeeping ledger. Snuck up and kissed her on the ear. She shot out of a leather chair quicker than one of those whiz-bang candle balls on the Fourth of July. Grabbed me like no other man on earth existed. Snuggled into my eager arms and kissed me with such passion my spurs almost melted.
