The Hell Bent Kid

by Charles O Locke

  I sat down on a log. There was no mistake. The knot on the far side was pushing his head way over. The face was in poor shape, and I think I knew him to be my father because of the baldness, mustache and crooked small, left finger. For a full two minutes I shook all over.

  After some time I went back and got on my horse and rode up the Grande a ways. I think already I was looking for someone to kill, but saw no one which was surprising in a way and in another way not. The shock was bad, but believe I thought if I went away and came back, the hanging men might not be there. That it had been a mistake or dream, but when I came back they were there all right.

  Began to feel cold, but recognized it as a strong and not a weak feeling. I had been weak when I went to that saloon, but too much had happened since to make me even think of that. My stomach was like a cinch knot. I realized then I should have gone with my father when he crossed the state line and not stayed at Restow’s.

  After I got out on the limb, where I had seen the rope’s shortness, I lashed the saddle rope that I went back for, into a slip knot on the hanging rope. This knot would squeeze tight. So when I cut the other with my knife, I could ease the body down slow.

  This was successful, so I began looking for a flat, sharp stone, found none, but found a half-rusted spade with no handle. The digging in that ground was tough work. The spade was rusted, it kept breaking off at the bad side, so when I got through, it was like a knife not a spade. But I got quite a good grave dug. If there had been time I would have liked to pick a better place.

  After I had got the place decently covered, I stoned the top, then began to consider the two other men, as it did not seem fair to ignore them as they probably had been friends with my father. One was about as old as my father, the other young, with a good frame, and bare feet that looked as if they had been burned.

  In digging around I was concentrating hard on the hard ground, so the first touch on my right ear I thought was a bug and flicked at it with my hand, which came in contact with the end of a rifle. Quickly I swung to left and then right and back, so that I was now kneeling back on my rear, looking at a man who stood covering me with a Winchester somewhat like mine. He was about my build, only with heavier shoulders, judge about 10 pounds heavier, 28 or 30. He had a mean face, whole face thin, nose curved, jawline curved like two rib bones, thin mouth.

  He said: “What are you up to?”

  I told him.

  “These men mean anything to you?”

  I told him that they did somewhat. It was beginning to feel strange to me that this man did not know how I felt, and thought he had all the advantage merely because he was holding a rifle on me. I might have respected that condition at other times but not now. That rifle meant nothing to me the way my mind was working.

  He kept me covered, spit out a chew and took a fresh one from his shirt pocket. I could of handled him then, but was so confident because of an unfamiliar feeling inside of me that I let it go and waited. I have thought this matter over a good deal since and believe for all purposes I had gone insane for the time.

  He spit tobacco juice, looked at me and smiled.

  He said: “What’s the matter with you, Bub, you scared?”

  I said and did nothing.

  He shifted his rifle, moved back, keeping me covered. He unbuttoned his pants and urinated on the grave. He was smiling at me all the time he did this, fixed himself, moved back towards me, and, as I expected, moved a little too close.

  My mind was blurring but I tried hard to keep hold of my reason. He shot once when my left hand reached out and held the muzzle, and the slug hit the ground three feet behind me, and, of course, he could not reload. I held the muzzle to the ground and broke his wrist with my right foot, as I kicked the gun from under his hand and under his shoulder. He did not have time to strike even one blow, and I do not believe he uttered a sound. I knocked him to the left with my right fist, and again to the right with my left, the blows landing good and solid, kicked him square in the face when he was down, jerked him up by the broke wrist, so that I could feel the split, green bone grind under my hand. He made a sound then, one big scream.

  I kicked him several times when he fell then, jerked him up and clasped him around the legs with my arms at the knees, for he was helpless, flopping by this time, but this made no difference to me, and, holding him off his feet in my clasped hands and arms I ran him back against a tree, using his head for a hammer against the tree, snapping his head back against the tree trunk, till I thought I would knock out his brains. I let go then and his body slumped down over my head like a cape. I reached up and threw him away.

  He was still breathing, and it angered me to see it. I picked up his rifle but dirt had made it dangerous to use and I ran back to my horse and my own rifle. I ran all the way back to the grove then, and just as I reached the clear with my rifle to finish him off with a shot, three men who had been running from the opposite direction, came in at the opposite side and stared at me.

  I swung the sight on them and yelled to them not to move. They became motionless and frozen. I think this was surprise as much as fear. One of them started toward me, but stopped when I yelled.

  People who hear about this will not perhaps believe that I was deaf with hate. I have heard of this happening to people, that some senses can leave you. It shocked me for a little to realize I had yelled and not heard the sound of my own voice. I do not apologize for this hate, for I had been sore tried.

  The men were putting up their hands, without anyone ordering them to. This was when the fear began to operate on them as they saw I was out of my mind, because I sure did act that way and believe I was.

  I laughed at their hands going up and told them to stop being foolish, to bring their hands down quick and unbuckle their belts. One was not armed at all, but the other two belts came down and one man had trouble because his pants kept sliding down. He stood there trying to hold them up by bowing his legs. He put his hand to his waistband at the side once and I snapped a shot through his hand. He tried it no more, but held up his bleeding hand, shaking his head at me. Then he held up both hands clasped over his head and fell on his knees and started to pray. He may have felt like the others that I was holding back from shooting them all. It is strange how men who think they are tough can break and soften up quick, and this applied to all three of them.

  I looked at the man on the ground then. I wanted to cut him to ribbons, club him up final. Shooting was too easy. I think this effort of mine to find a way to pay them off slowed me and calmed me down somewhat. Furthermore controlling the three men helped me think and I had not thought for some minutes.

  But I was still acting on impulse some for when one of them said in a low voice, “It’s the Lohman kid—” I snapped a shot at him without thinking and knocked off his hat and put a permanent crease, lifelong, in his hair. Hitting them at short range like this sickened me gradually, it was so easy. Like bull’s-eye shooting in a testing vise. Could hardly miss.

  I backed off. I reached down with my left hand and unbuckled the dying man’s belt, and put it on with the holster and gun. I do not know how I did this without losing the throwdown. I do not know this right up to now. But it seemed easy to do at the time.

  The three men’s names were Gil Gilman, George Hallett and a man named Deimer, whose first name I never learned. I got their names later. The dying man’s name was C. J. Reif, assistant foreman on a ranch owned by a cousin of the Boyds.

  Reif was now pretty plainly done, and I ordered Hallett to take off his boots. He came forward to the body and did so and handed them to me with the spurs on. He then at my command handed me Reif’s hat and I put it on.

  As I backed out of the clear, I called the men all the names I could think of, and still they never moved. I lost sight of them when I turned beyond the trees to get my bay, and rode back then to the clear and still they had not moved.

  They were terrified. I think sometimes human power in anger grows so great under pressur
e that it can work this effect. My father had been of this mind. Besides, there was not a man there who did not feel a sense of guilt. However, it was explained to me also later that the men knew of my skill with the rifle and thought by disappearing I was trapping them into making some move and that I would then shoot them down from the screen of trees. Certainly I had intimidated them so they did not hardly know where to move or turn.

  But besides my hate, which held them, I still think in practical terms of the mental force of the rifle, an accurate, long-range weapon, much more deadly in the hands of a good shot than any hand-gun ever made.

  To get out of there I rode to a little, clear rise under some trees about a mile away, and tried to pull myself together, thinking what I ought to do.

  17

  Lohman Meets a Relative

  Ed’s bay got nervous as I headed back for town. In the heat of day I had neglected his water. There was a small, poor-looking farm with a drip-trough, but no horse-trough, so I took a rock and put it at the down end and let her fill so the bay could drink.

  Made enough noise to bring out the hands or the family but no one showed. House and barn both looked empty and the house had the shades down.

  Took time to put my boots on. They fit fine. The hat was clear too big, so I threw it away. While I was doing this a man on a horse came past hitting it up for Socorro fast. So I knew the word would go ahead of me. I did not mind now, as I was on the aggressive and would shoot first if I decided to, not wait to be shot at.

  The spurs I took off from the boots. They were fancy, cheap, poor-made, with Mex-looking rowels. I started to knock off the points with a rock, then threw them away.

  I went back to the Socorro saloon at a jog. People along the streets were few but they saw me coming and I saw them disappear. I could hear running and talking back of buildings but no shot was fired at me. It seemed strange to see the same saloon now after all that had befallen me.

  I walked in. At the front end, as I came in the back, a big 12-man poker game stopped and I recollected it was Saturday.

  The cards stopped slapping. Someone called for a beer in a low voice. Redhead bartender showed nervousness, then moved to get it. About eight or nine men along the bar seemed to freeze. I leaned my rifle up neat against the bar, then took her back, put her on cock, leaned her again. Never moved my new Colt from the belt.

  Took a better look at the place. I saw what I had not seen before, though unimportant, a gold eagle hanging over the back bar.

  I looked over the men. Some were standing staring at me, some looked hard at the big door, or at the floor or at their whiskey glasses. For at least a minute there was no move, except the bartender sliding the beer glass. He slid it a long ways. It came to a slow stop. He started to polish a whiskey glass then. The card dealer had not moved, holding a half deck.

  The bartender eased up to me. I said to him: “I found the place as you directed but it was not like you said.”

  “No?” he said in a low voice. “Did the best I could for you.”

  I believed him. Said I wanted a glass of milk.

  Said friendly: “We have quite a few calls for milk, plain or with brandy, which is a faddish drink right now, but just now am out of milk.”

  Said I would settle for a glass of water. He got it for me, refused my money, and I drank it slowly.

  As I put down the glass, there was a small, quick move up front. I turned but did not reach and could see nothing. The sound resembled a match striking but I saw no lighted match.

  I said: “If there are people who want business with me, they can have it. I have just now come from the cotton-wood grove north of town.”

  Nobody spoke. I said then: “I would like to ask if there are any Boyds here which I do not recognize. If so, I would like for them to come out with me.”

  Nobody spoke.

  “Or relatives or dear friends.”

  Nobody spoke nor moved.

  The bartender walked to me slow: “Mr. Lohman, I surely and sincerely think that the people you are interested in are not here.”

  I had never been called mister before, it surprised me.

  The bartender now brought out a Colt from under the bar. He laid it near my rifle and said: “If you intend to start shooting, Mr. Lohman, I will shoot, too, and right at you. I will not have my place shot up. It has been shot up once before and that I will not tolerate. I try to run a clean place.”

  I told him I had no intention of trying to shoot up the place. I told him I never shot without having a sharp-showed target and would not start now. I told him if any shooting was to be done, it would not be within doors except to protect myself.

  “In that case,” the bartender said, “it is different.”

  He removed his gun from the bar. He now had the advantage of me. All the advantage, and he knew it. It is peculiar how this thing works. It is hard to explain how a peaceable man can get an advantage, no matter whether the man he faces is inclined to murder him or is a fair-play man. The man with the nerve has the real throwdown.

  My father had explained this to me many times, saying that in his lifework, for every man he had arrested while being armed, he had arrested one while being unarmed. My father felt that both his sons would have been alive if they had gone to arrest their men without being armed.

  I said goodbye, picked up my belongings and went out.

  I had not forgotten Ed Hoffman nor that Jake might still be at Reamer’s Livery Barn, so I rode there. George Reamer was there and so was Blacky and I told Reamer what I had come for.

  He asked me to wait and that he would call Ed, who to my surprise was sleeping in his hay loft. He got Ed down. Ed had been drinking heavy the night before and at first I thought his attitude to me had something to do with my trouble. But later I found out he knew nothing about it.

  He looked over his horse, said he was satisfied. I thanked him and he just nodded. Then he went into Reamer’s office and stretched out on a pile of newspapers and went to sleep again.

  Reamer, who was a man about 60 with a bald head, listened to what I had to say and said I owed him a dollar for Blacky’s keep. I unsewed a dollar from my pants and gave it to him. He said he knew he could not get it out of Ed, who had a hangover and was without funds, so I gave a couple more dollars to Reamer. Asked him to give them to Ed.

  He had some trouble finding the blanket and strap I rode Blacky with, as of course Ed had rode him with the same equipment I had. I realized then that when I took the bay I had not been in a saddle on a horse since the Boyds shot Jimmy.

  While he was seeking for the blanket, I asked him if he had seen Jake Leffertfinger. He said yes he had gone to Magdalena two days before with another man of the same name as mine.

  I was knocked silly, though having heard of Harley before from the bartender. I asked if the first name was Harley. Reamer said he did not know. We had no sooner finished this conversation than a man rode into the stable and I saw it was my brother Harley.

  Seeing the rider and not knowing him at first, I had slid into a box stall but now came out.

  I said: “Hello, Harley.”

  Harley stared. Finally he said: “Hello, Tot.” We shook hands.

  Harley said, “Just a minute,” and went to talk to Reamer. They talked in low tones. Then Harley came back. He motioned me into the box stall where I had first hidden from him.

  Harley said: “I have been to the saloon where you held them up. The man you attacked upriver is dying. The way you did him scares folks. Why did you do it, Tot?”

  I asked him if he really did not know. He said that he had only recently ridden back into town after going only part way to Magdalena with Jake.

  “Harley,” I said, “our father is dead.” Then I told him.

  Harley sat down on a loose feedbox in the stall. Finally he said: “I will have to take some time to think this over.”

  I said: “You stay here and take some time to think it over and I will do something about it.” I then told
him about Shorty Boyd, my time with Restow, about spooking the Boyds’ herd and shooting Nelson and the rest. At first I could not believe my father had omitted telling him about Shorty Boyd but later realized it was a little like my father to keep his mouth shut even with his own kin.

  Harley said: “I should of stayed at home, why did I leave?”

  I said: “Yes, Harley, you should of stayed to help me with Father.”

  “I’ll ride up to Oklahoma with you.”

  I said: “That’s not far enough. I am riding to Wyoming, maybe further, but first to Bradley’s place at Santa Rosa.” I was noticing how well dressed Harley was.

  “Hunter Boyd is in Santa Rosa,” Harley said. “I heard it on the street last week and heard it again here this morning. Some kind of a cattle deal.”

  I said I would go there looking for Hunter Boyd.

  Harley seemed to get a little excited. I closed my eyes, while he ran a good deal at the mouth. The way he talked brought him back to me as a kid. With eyes closed I was seeing him as a kid.

  When we were young, all kids together, Harley would sometimes show slowness, which my brothers thought was weakness. Like the time of the Comanche raid on our place. We wanted him to help us get the horses into the barn, and he showed slowness until my brother Nevin called him on it. At these times it was as if Harley was fighting some weakness. That’s how it seemed now. He kept talking, but kept his eyes on a corner of the box stall where I had hid from him.

  “You meet me in four days at the Muleshoe—” he said this several times—“that is a place in Santa Rosa. We will hole up together. There are places up there where the two of us holed up could stand off an army. I’m with you in this. I owe you something for leaving the family like I did.”

  I said I would see him at the place.

  He kept coming back to the idea. “The reason I want to stay around is to investigate this terrible thing that’s been done to our father, and to see what the community thinks of you.”