Forty Times a Killer (17 page)

After a search, I found my horse standing outside a livery stable and led him away. He must have had visions of a dry stall and oats in the bucket, because he was reluctant to leave. But I dragged him after me.

If I was going to rough it, so was he.

I glanced through a bank window and to my surprise the clock on the wall said it was thirty minutes after noon. I'd been unconscious longer than I thought.

It was time to find Manny Clements.

He wasn't hard to track down. He was a well-known character in Austin and a passerby told me he could usually be found at that hour taking lunch at the Scholz Beer Garden on San Jacinto Street.

I led my horse through the rain and somber grayness that drifted like smoke from the north and looped him to the hitching rail outside the restaurant.

The beer garden was a splendid place with windows on all four walls and a fine gable roof, but I was in little mood to enjoy it. I could barely see anyway. My left eye was completely swollen shut and the right was headed that way.

Fortunately, the rain had washed away the blood from my flattened nose, but before I went inside I scrubbed my hand over my top lip and chin just to make sure.

Can you imagine what I looked like when I stepped inside Mr. Scholz's pride and joy?

I was soaked to the skin and my huge, sodden coat dragged on the floor. I'd found my hat in the street, but it had been run over by a wagon wheel and I'd had to punch it back into shape. It didn't look too good.

Imagine then, my pinched, pale little face, a nose blue and broken, eyes black and swollen shut, and me smelling of mud, and manure, and you'll get some idea why I wasn't exactly welcomed into the beer garden with open arms.

To his credit, the waiter who met me at the door was polite and kept his eyes empty. “Do you wish to be seated, sir?”

“No.” I said.

The waiter looked relieved.

“I'm here to see Manny Clements.”

“Would that be Mr. Mannen Clements?”

“Yes. That's him.”

“Please wait here and I'll see if he's inside,” the waiter said. “Whom shall I say wishes to speak with him?”

“Just tell him it's Little Bit.”

“Very well, Mr. Bit. I'll find out if Mr. Clements is available.”

The waiter left and I stood, hat in hand, dripping onto the polished wood floor. I smelled steak sizzling, possibly corned beef and cabbage bubbling in the pot, definitely frying bacon, and perhaps just a soupcon of grilled German sausage. My stomach rumbled and I fervently hoped that Manny, a great trencherman in his own right, would feed me.

He didn't.

With the waiter leading the way, Manny left the dining room and met me at the door. I smelled sausage and mustard on his breath.

“What the hell happened to you?” Manny asked.

“I ran afoul of a railroad bull,” I said.

“Were you trespassing on railroad property?”

“A platform.”

Manny nodded. “You're lucky he didn't shoot you.”

“Yeah, real lucky, I guess. John Wesley sent me.”

“He's in the
juzgado
.”

“I know.”

“What does he want?”

I told him.

Blood is thicker than water in Texas, and Manny didn't hesitate. “Tell Wes I'll be there. He'll come out of that hellhole naked, so tell him I'll bring him clothes and a gun.” He stared at me, obviously not impressed by what he saw. “Can you remember that?”

“Yeah, I can. But I've no money to buy a hacksaw blade.”

Manny reached into his jingling pocket and gave me half a dollar. “A blade doesn't cost more than that.” He took a step back, looking me up and down. “Little Bit, I'd say you're a sight for sore eyes, but I'd be telling a big windy. You look like crap.”

“I feel like crap. And I'm hungry.”

“Be outside the jail at midnight tomorrow,” Manny said. “You can hold the horses.”

He stepped away, back to his lunch, and left me to sadly contemplate my empty, sunken belly.

 

 

The hardware store owner sold me a hacksaw blade, slightly rusty, for twenty-five cents. I was overjoyed. That gave me enough change for five beers and allowed me to partake of the free lunch advertised on a chalkboard outside the Star of Erin saloon.

It was good to get out of the rain. I bought a beer and then nonchalantly strolled to the free lunch bar like a well-fed man in the mood for a snack. The menu was fish oriented—pickled herring, sardines in oil, and slabs of yellow, dried cod. But they also had hardboiled eggs in the shell, a massive crock of butter, and a basket of rye bread.

Since crockery tended to walk out the door with the customers, thick brown paper shaped into cones served as plates.

An ominous, chalked sign above the bar read NO SCUM ALLOWED.

Since I was a paying customer, I ignored that. I filled my cone with herring, cod, a couple chunks of bread and butter and sat at a table to enjoy my feast.

Alas, my happiness was short-lived.

The saloon was busy, but one of the four bartenders left his post and stepped over to my table. He was as big as the railroad bull, but not quite as mean. “Take your lunch outside, son,” he said, in a strong Irish accent.

I was chewing a mouthful of bread and butter. When I finally swallowed, I said, “Why?”

“Because the patrons say you smell bad.” The bartender smiled, showing teeth like little white pegs.

I always liked white teeth, my own being of that particular shade.

“Son, they're right. You stink like the pigs o' Docherty, so out the door with you. There's a bench outside where you can sit. It's sheltered from the rain.”

I'd learned a lesson from my run-in with the bull, and I didn't want to antagonize an Irishman with massive forearms and a head as big as a nail keg. Without a word, I rose and carried my paper poke and beer outside.

“Good lad,” the bartender said after he saw me seated on a bench covered by the porch roof. He was a good man, that Irishman.

No sooner was I seated than he returned with a schooner of beer. “This one is on the house. For the inconvenience, like.” He stared at me for a long time as though sorting out some sentences in his mind. “You look sick, son, and you've been beaten.”

I nodded. I had no sentences of my own, sorted or otherwise.

“Then you take care,” he said.

“Thanks for the beer.”

I ate my food—the cod and pickled herring were as salty as the sea—and stepped into the rain again.

I knew Wes would be worried about me.

“Did you bring it?” John Wesley asked me.

“It's down my pants leg.”

“Slip it through the grill.”

“What about the guards?”

“They're looking in every other direction but this one.”

I did as he told me, and Wes said, “You spoke to Manny?”

“He'll have a horse and clothes and a revolver.”

“Good. I've got scores to settle.” He looked at me, as though seeing me for the first time. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Railroad bull,” I said.

“You were trespassing?”

“On the station platform. Me and my horse.”

“You're lucky you're still alive.”

“I guess.”

“Stay out of trouble.”

“I will. What about the railroad bull?”

“What about him?”

“Look at my face, Wes.”

“Yeah, that's too bad. Don't go near the station again.”

“If I could shoot, I'd gun that bull.”

“I'm sure you would.”

Wes glanced over his shoulder. “I got to go. See you tomorrow night.”

“I'll be here.”

Wes's face vanished from the door grill and a guard ushered me out of the jail.

 

 

That evening I spent my last twenty cents on beer in a saloon with a three-piece orchestra and bummed a whiskey off a puncher who said he'd stand treat if 'n I stayed at least ten feet away from him.

Finally, my beer ran out and the bartender's patience wore thin. I was tossed into the rainy street again.

I staked my horse on a patch of bunchgrass behind a Chinese laundry and spent the night in their outhouse.

But come first light, the Chinese chased me away and, damn it all, it was still raining.

I'd taken the precaution of stashing some of the dried cod and bread in my pocket, so I sat on a hotel porch and made a good breakfast.

The outhouse had been uncomfortable, just a narrow, single-holer. I had not rested well. By comparison, the hotel rocker felt like a king's throne. I tipped my hat over my eyes and waited for sleep to take me.

I vaguely remember the sound of a train whistle in the distance . . . the rumble of a freight wagon in the street . . . the
slam-slam-slam
of a screen door opening and closing in the wind . . . the bark of a dog . . .

Then I heard nothing at all.

 

 

Something hard poking into my shoulder awakened me. I opened my eyes, tipped back my hat, and saw to my surprise that it was full dark. Reflector lamps had been lit up and down the street.

The beating I'd taken and the bad night in the outhouse had tired me more than I thought. I hurt all over.

“It's time you went home now, young fellow.” It was a man's voice, the Deep South accent smooth and unhurried as molasses dripping from a barrel. A tall, slender man with white hair and a trimmed imperial regarded me with mild blue eyes. He held a cane in his hand, but had a soldier's bearing.

“I must have fallen asleep . . . Gen'ral,” I said.

The old man smiled. “You've promoted me, sir.” He gave a little bow. “Lieutenant Colonel Miles Hannah, late of the Sixty-first Regiment Alabama Infantry.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Colonel.”

“You must go home now, son,” the old soldier said. “The cause is lost, the regiment is disbanded, and I see that you are sorely wounded in the leg as I am.”

The rocker creaked as I sat up. “Colonel, do you own this place? I could sure use a glass of whiskey, on the slate, like.”

The old man smiled again. “No, I don't own this hotel, but I live here. I'm disabled from battle wounds, you understand. Many battles, many wounds.”

“Sorry to hear that, Colonel. But what can you do about the whiskey?”

The old man thought for a few moments, then said, “My daughter and her husband own this hotel. I'll ask them to fill a convivial glass for an old soldier.”

I saluted. “That's me, Colonel, an old soldier as ever was.”

“We had times, boy, did we not? Fighting for freedom, shoulder to shoulder against the Northern aggressors.”

“Sure thing. Good times with Bobby Lee and Longstreet and them.”

“But the great cause was lost and now the Bonnie Blue Flag lies trampled in the dust.”

“Yeah, that's sad,” I said. “Colonel, about the whiskey . . .”

“Ah yes, the whiskey. Stay there. I'll see what I can do directly.” Using his cane, the colonel limped to the door. Then he turned to me and said, “What was your rank, son?”

“Sergeant.” I hated to deceive this kind and brave old man, but my entire being cried out for whiskey and I'd no other source but him.

He smiled at me. “The most important rank in any army is sergeant.” Then he stepped through the open door.

Rain ticked from the porch roof and, illuminated by the lanterns that glowed outside the stores and saloons, fell on the street like a cascade of steel needles. Thunder rolled like dim drums in the distance of the night and lightning flashed gold within the storm clouds.

I sat and waited and worried that the old colonel had fallen down somewhere and couldn't get up again.

After about ten minutes, a woman stepped onto the porch. She was pretty, looked to be in her mid-thirties, but she was much too thin and her eyes were tired. “You're awake.”

“Yes,” I said. “I hope you don't mind me using your porch.”

“People need shelter from the rain. But I think you should move on now.”

“Is your father Colonel Hannah?”

“Why do you ask?” She seemed surprised.

“He told me he'd bring me a glass of whiskey,” I said, then quickly, “On the slate.”

The woman gave me a long look, but I couldn't read her face.

Finally she said, “The colonel has done this before.”

I hoped my smile was ingratiating. “He's a fine old soldier.”

Without another word, the woman turned on her heel and stepped into the hotel.

But she returned within a couple of minutes with a glass of bourbon. “Drink this. Then please leave.”

I said my thankee and took the glass.

The woman stepped away, then stopped and turned to me. The right side of her face was lit by the oil lamp beside the door, the other half in shadow. “My father, Colonel Hannah, died of his wounds two years ago.” Then she left me and I heard the quick thud of her boot heels on the timber floor inside.

My hands shook and I held the glass in both as I drank the whiskey like a man dying of thirst.

Whether my tremors were from a lack of booze or my brush with the supernatural I don't know, but I can tell you this. Like most Texans, especially those who'd been around cow camps, I was deathly afraid of ghosts and ha'nts and such. As soon as I downed my whiskey, I got off that porch double quick, collected my horse, and didn't look back.

Some things that are not meant for mortal eyes leave indelible memories, and the specter of the dead old colonel visits me still on thundery midnights, troubling my restless sleep.

I arrived at the jail well before midnight, but stayed back out of sight. Hidden by darkness, I awaited the arrival of Manny Clements. The November night was cold and the thunder that had warned of continuing rain had made good on its promise. It was not a heavy downpour, just a steady drizzle that soaked me to the skin and made it difficult to see anything around me.

After about fifteen minutes, Manny showed up. He was mounted on a rawboned buckskin and led two other animals, a paint mustang and a pack mule. He drew rein beside me and said, “Seen anything yet?”

I shook my head. Realizing it was very dark, I said, “Not a thing. I haven't heard anything, either.”

Manny swung out of the saddle and bade me do the same. “Hold onto the horses. I'll go see what's happening.” He reached under his slicker, adjusted the lie of his holstered revolver, and walked away from me.

Soon Manny was swallowed by the gloom and I heard nothing but the hiss of the rain and the beat of my own racing heart.

Dreary minutes passed with agonizing slowness . . . then footsteps, squelching in mud, came toward me. The darkness parted and two men appeared, Manny's supporting arm around Wes's waist.

His teeth gritted against pain, Wes wore only ragged long johns and there were bloodstains on the front of the shirt.

Alarmed, I said, “What happened?”

“I had to pull him through the window. The stumps of the iron bars dragged across his wounded belly.” Manny helped Wes sit with his back against a tree, then stepped to the pack mule.

I kneeled beside Wes. “Are you all right?”

He looked through me rather than at me. “What do you think?”

I didn't have to answer that because Manny came back, holding a slicker and a bottle of Old Crow. “Here, Wes, before you get some of this whiskey in you we'll put the slicker on you. We'll dress you properly after we light a shuck out of here.”

We helped Wes to his feet and got the slicker on him.

Manny passed him the bottle. “Now get the whiskey down you. It will do you good.”

Wes drank from the bottle. “I needed that.” He passed it back to Manny who also drank deeply.

He wiped his mustache with the back of his hand and corked the bottle. “Now we'll get you mounted.”

“Manny, I could sure use a drink of that whiskey,” I said.

The man stared at me for the briefest of moments, then said, “Help get Wes up on his horse.”

There would be no whiskey for Little Bit that night.

You may think that Manny Clements was harsh, ignoring me like that, and indeed he was, but he was a product of his time and place, a hard man bred to a hard land where fighting men were esteemed above all others. In Texas in those days such men drank whiskey but in Manny's eyes I was far from being any kind of a man. He would not waste Old Crow on such as me.

No, he was not being cruel.

If you'd asked Manny why there was no whiskey for Little Bit, he would be surprised by your question, just as he was surprised that I'd even made such request in the first place.

I was not worthy. Simple as that.

A crippled little nonentity learns to live with hurts of all kinds, so now I'll drop the matter and say no more about it.

 

 

After the jailbreak, Wes decided to remain in Gonzales County among friends, and I rode with him to a tiny burg named Coon Hollow where he met up with his wife again.

Jane, who was heavy with Wes's child at the time, took me aside. “Little Bit, John will be a man with a family soon, and I want you to talk to him.”

“About what, Jane?” I was surprised at the request. Mrs. Hardin had always made it clear by word, thought, and deed that she didn't have much time for me.

“About settling down.” Her pretty little face creased with worry. “I don't want my husband to get shot again. The next time could be his last.” She lightly touched her fingertips to my wrist. “I know he'll listen to you.”

I wanted to say,
When did Wes ever listen to me?
but I didn't. Instead I said, “Jane, Wes is talking about splitting his time between Karnes and Gonzales Counties.”

“He didn't tell me that,” Jane said, her quick temper flaring.

“Wes didn't tell you because he says you've got enough to deal with right now, what with the baby coming and all.”

It was a barefaced lie. Wes had said no such thing. But it worked.

Jane's face relaxed and she smiled. “He's a good husband, isn't he?”

“The best,” I said. Another lie then a kernel of truth to support my claim to his worth as a husband. “Now that he has responsibilities, Wes plans to buy and sell cattle and rope and brand mavericks. He's even talking about making another drive to Kansas.”

Jane just stared into my eyes and said nothing, so I threw in a kicker. “And, of course, he wants to get his Wild West show off the ground and moving. He says it will make us millionaires.”

“He's talked to me about that before. Do you think it's possible?”

“More than possible, Jane, probable.”

“What about the law? All those men they say John killed?”

“Jane, Wes never killed a man except in defense of himself or others. Of course, the law can make him stand trial, but a Texas jury will never convict him.”

“Can I believe you, Little Bit? You're offering me hope.”

“Yes, you can believe me,” I said, assuming my sincere face. “You and Wes will grow old together and spoil your grandchildren.”

So I spun a fairytale that lit up Jane's eyes and if the circumstances had been different it might even have come true. Who knows?

But that very night a grim Manny Clements walked into the house . . . and called in favors. He made war talk with John Wesley . . . and the stage was set for Wes's long, tortuous descent into madness and death.