And Kill Them All (13 page)

With nervous fingers, Boz tapped the brass tops of bullets in the loops of his pistol belt. “Makes sense to me, Lucius,” he said. “Mendoza's trail-side whiskey and tequila locker in Carta Blanca is the closest place for 'em to tie on a good drunk 'tween here and Del Rio. Maybe grab a bite to eat as well.”

I scratched my chin and frowned but said nothing.

“Bet all them fellers as had a hand in sendin' Miss Clementine's family to eternal rest,” Boz continued, “are a-lookin' to drown some of the bloody horror of what they went and done in a river of bad tonsil paint. Ain't a man of good conscience who could face his God after such a monstrous act. Figure they're likely goin' straight to horned Satan just as fast as bad whiskey and good horseflesh can carry 'em to 'im.”

Glo grunted, nodded his agreement, then said, “Everthang you just said could well be true, Mistuh Tatum. But you know them fellers ain't in no special, horse-killin' hurry to get theyselves to Mendoza's, or anywhere else for that matter. They's ridin' along all slow and cocky, real arrogant-like. Done set me to thinkin' as how they figures ain't nobody knows, or cares, as how they done went and kilt off the most part of an entire family.”

“Taking their time, are they?” I growled between clenched teeth.

“Yah, suh. They 'uz draggin' around so slow I almost rode right up on 'em, no longer'n I 'uz gone this mornin'. Trailed 'em till they weren't no doubt in my mind where them fellers was headed. Way I got it figured, if'n they keep up the pace they 'uz makin' when I turned back, likely be bellyin' up to the bar at Arturo's jus' about now. Be good'n knee-walkin' drunk in another hour or so. Passed out or pukin' up they sorry guts whence it comes on dark.”

I picked at my teeth with a splinter of wood, stopped a second, and said, “How many of 'em, Glo?”

“They's five, Mistah Dodge. Whole party stopped a time or two so as to rest they animals. Offered me a chance to get up close enough to give 'em a pert good lookin' over through my long glass. Mighty rough bunch if'n I ever seed one. Could well be the roughest we ever done went out after, you ask me. Even worse'n some of them Messican bandits we chased down into Chihuahua some years back
.
”

“Get any five gun-totin' men in Texas together and they're usually a rough bunch, Glo. All together the three of us have chased enough bad ones over the years that, of all people, you should know that,” I said.

“Yah, suh. I knows that. My mama sho' 'nuff didn't raise no fools. Knows 'bout badmen. But I think maybe the gennuman leadin' this crew's 'bout as bad as it's gonna git. It's somebody we already knows.”

Boz slapped the butt of his hip pistol, frowned, and growled, “The hell you say, Glo. Who'n the red-eyed name of Satan would any of us
know
that's capable of the brutal, senseless massacre of a man, woman, and three of their innocent kids?”

Johnson cut Boz a slicing, peculiar look, then said, “ 'S Pitt Murdock, Mistuh Boz. Gives me the willies to say it, but the man leadin' this buncha killers is none other'n Pitt Murdock.”

The name snaked around our sputtering campfire as if God had stepped down from His heavenly throne and cracked a lightning tipped bullwhip in our midst. Me and Boz danced from foot to foot and shot knowing looks, back and forth, at each other.

Clementine Webb immediately detected the moniker's impact on her newfound guardians. With the tail-wagging Bear glued to her side, she stepped away from my protection and glanced from troubled face to troubled face. Her puzzled gaze finally landed on Boz.

Girl came near whispering when she said, “Who's Pitt Murdock? Do all of you know the man?”

Boz's squint-eyed gaze darted to the inquisitive girl, then flicked over to Glorious Johnson, then me, then back to Glo. He sounded incredulous when he said, “Pitt Murdock? You're absolutely sure 'bout that, Glo? Ain't no doubt in your mind that the man you seen was that stink-sprayin' polecat Pitt Murdock?”

Glorious Johnson nodded. “Man that ugly, course I'm sure. Ain't the worst of it neither, Mistuh Boz. Not by a long shot. Pert sure one a them other'ns, ridin' along with Murdock, is Tanner Atwood.”

Boz kicked at the end of a smoldering tree limb that jutted several feet beyond the dying fire, then said, “Sweet Jesus riding a golden armadillo.” He wagged his head from side to side like a winded horse. “For true now, there's not a single doubt in your mind, Glo? Two of the men responsible for leaving all the bodies we found here are Pitt Murdock and Tanner Atwood?”

“Yah, suh, Mistuh Boz. I knows them men. Familiar enough wid the both of 'em to know who they wuz soon as I seen 'em pop up in my spyglass. Been face-to-face with that Atwood more'n once. Still have a crystal clear memory of how Murdock got that nasty scar on his butt-ugly face. Swear 'fore Jesus, the man ain't changed much since last I seen him. He's still uglier'n a sack full of bullfrogs' assholes. Sorry, for the language, Miss Clementine. Jus' the man's a bad 'un, you know.”

I shrugged, stroked the yellowed-ivory grips of the pistol lying across my belly. I said, “To this day, still avow as how I whacked Murdock hard enough to kill him. Laid the whole side of his head open when I clubbed the bastard. Man's face opened up from his hatband to his chin. But Lord a mercy, that murderous slug's head was harder than a frozen turtle shell. Thought sure I'd gone and broke the barrel on a spanking new Colt Peacemaker. Gun never did shoot worth spit after that particular incident. Finally had to give up on it.”

“Uh-huh. Yah, suh. Well, there you go. That's it. Jus' the way I remember it happenin'. Pitt Murdock. That be the man, right enough.”

Boz swayed back and forth like a two-hundred-year-old live oak in a cyclone. He said, “Sweet Jesus, Lucius, that's goin' on five, maybe six year ago, ain't it? Was the time we caught up with Pitt and that bunch of killers he used to ride with from over in Fort Stockton. They 'uz runnin' from the murder of that luckless clerk he shot in the head when they tried to rob the Buckhorn Bank and Trust up in San Angelo.”

“Yes,” I said. “Lot of water's passed under the bridge. Give or take a few months, your memory of the events sounds about right.”

“Never forget the clerk,” Boz said. “That bastard Murdock blew the whole top of the man's head off with a single blast from a shotgun. He did the sorry deed right in the middle of a bank filled to overflowing with end-of-the-month customers. Just because the poor teller didn't move fast enough to suit 'em ole boys that was a robbin' 'im.”

“Terrible killing,” I agreed.

Boz dug at his ear with one finger, then stared at the digit's tip as though he expected to find something sparkling and precious. “Poor dead feller's name was Chidester, as I remember. Yeah, Hiram Chidester.”

“Lef' four or five chil'ren and a grievin' wife,” Glorious Johnson muttered. “That 'un were a right sad case, right sad.”

Boz sucked at his teeth, spit, then said, “Damn right. And that smarter'n hell Austin lawyer got him off with twenty-five years to life for the deed. He's supposed to still be servin' hard time over in the Huntsville State Penitentiary, ain't he, Lucius? Choppin' cotton, splitin' wood, breakin' rocks, pickin' peas. What the hell's an evil, man-killing bastard like Pitt Murdock doin' runnin' loose way out here in this neck of the woods? And a keepin' company with scum like Tanner Atwood, to boot?”

“Swear fo' Jesus, Mistuh Boz, I done thought as how the man 'uz dead and in the ground,” Glo offered. “Pert sure I heard more'n a few folks tellin' tales as how one of them other convicts tried to cut Murdock's head off with a knife he'd done fashioned out of a sharpened soup spoon. Dem folks claimed as how Murdock died a horrible death. Made me right grateful to hear such.”

“Yeah, I heard that story, too,” Boz said.

Glo's head bobbed up and down. “Gotta tell ya, come as quite a shock when a man what's s'posed to be dead went and popped up in my long glass the way he done—ignert, ugly head still sittin' on his worthless shoulders and all. Uh-huh, tell you fo' true, I done went to breathin' hard. Came right near passin' out, most like the fat woman what tried to run a foot race on the Fourth of July.”

Chewed at my bottom lip and stared off into the emptiness of the western distance. After near a minute of silent thought, pretty sure it sounded as if I'd stepped out of my body and become possessed when I said, “Guess we'd best get after them fellers, quick as we can, boys. When men like Murdock and Atwood go to work killing people, they're not the type that's inclined to stop till most of a guiltless world's ankle deep in blood and bullet-riddled bodies.”

“But, but, wait now, Mistuh Dodge. Ain't had a chance to tell you everthang. No, suh. No, suh. See, that ain't the whole of it.”

Well, that sure enough snapped my head up. Must have looked like a man who'd been slapped with an open palm. Flush-faced I said, “What? What the hell else is there, Glo? What more could there be?”

“Well, cain't be sayin' fo' absolute certain on this here part, but I be thinkin' them other three travelin' with Murdock's them Pickett boys.”

I couldn't help but let a groan slip out. “Roscoe, Priest, and Cullen?”

“Yah, suh. Dem's the ones, all right.”

In the manner of a still-smoking cannon being realigned for its next shot, Boz's head swiveled around on its stalk-like neck. His narrow-eyed, squinty gaze fell directly onto Clementine Webb. He sounded like a man amazed, when he said, “Who on earth are you, girl? Why would a pack of murderous animals such as them Glo just named want to kill off your entire family?”

Clementine Webb ducked back beneath my sheltering arm. She latched onto to the bullet-laden pistol belt around my waist with one hand and held tight. Peeked up at me with wide, watery eyes.

Tail still wagging, Bear followed, flopped down at the girl's feet, and stared up at her. He pawed at her leg and groaned in an obvious effort at regaining her attention.

I pulled Clementine around by one arm, then gently held the girl in place with a hand on each shoulder and said, “Perhaps the better question just might be, who on earth was your father, girl?”

13

“I'LL NOT HAVE YOU RIDE OFF AND LEAVE ME.”

CLEMENTINE WEBB DREW into herself. The girl seemed to shrink and tried to pull away from me. She shook her head as if dumbfounded by an unfathomable question. Her trembling lips parted several times. She tried to speak, but nothing came out. On the third or fourth attempt the clearly agitated girl finally sputtered, “Whawha-what do you mean?”

“Who was your father, Clem?” I repeated. “What was his name?”

“Webb, of course. Just like mine. What else would it be?”

“No, his given name. What was his given name?”

“Nathan. Nathan. Nathan Hawthorne Webb.”

I bent closer. My gaze narrowed. “From Austin? Your father, the man Boz and I buried just a few hours ago, was none other than Nathan H. Webb of Austin?”

The girl humped up at me a bit when she said, “Yes. Yes, Nathan Webb was my father.”

Boz pushed his hat onto one side of a sweat-drenched head. He scratched at a spot above his ear. A look of puzzled consternation and confusion crept onto his craggy, weather-beaten face. “Nathan Webb? We don't know anybody named Nathan Webb, or Nathan H. Webb, or whatever'n hell she just said. Do we, Lucius?”

Let my hands fall away from Clementine's shoulders. Suddenly felt tired, stumbled back a step, then straightened up and said, “We might, Boz. Yes, indeed. We just might. Leastways, I now have a pretty good idea who the man once was before we found him this morning.”

“Who? Who do we be knowin' name a Nathan Webb, Mistuh Dodge? I doan be rememberin' no one like that,” Glo said.

“Minor Texas politician. One of the lesser lights in the great Lone Star State's political heavens. Senator, as I recall. You boys rarely bother to read those newspapers friends of mine have sent me from Austin. Otherwise you might've seen the name,” I said. “If a stretched-to-the-limits memory still serves, this child's father was the elected representative of the good folks down around Uvalde. That right, Clem?”

“Yes. My father is ...” She stumbled for a second, appeared confused, then quickly regained her shaky composure and continued, “. . . Was, he was, a Texas state senator. We live—or did live—in Uvalde during those times when Papa doesn't—didn't—have to be in Austin on the business of the people. We have a house at Number Twenty-three Pecos Boulevard.”

Boz moved closer to me and the girl. “What were y'all doin' way and the heck over here on the backside of nowhere Texas, so far away from home, child?”

“Camping.”

Pretty sure Boz had already deduced as much himself, but he still sounded mildly incredulous when he shook his head, frowned, and grumped, “Camping?”

Finally, given something she could grab hold of to occupy her scattered mind, Clementine Webb appeared to grow stronger, more tenacious and controlled with our pointed questioning. A distinct, huffy resoluteness tinged her voice when she replied, “Yes.
Camping
. A week or so ago Papa rushed home early from his office. Said he'd decided to take us all camping. Said he needed a few days away from the cares and worries of civilization and the burdens of political responsibility. Said what we all needed was a family trip. There was nothing wrong with that.”

It sounded like an echo when Boz mumbled, “A family trip?”