Gun Work: The Further Exploits of Hayden Tilden (18 page)

Evans followed us onto the boardwalk. Four of us stood beneath the shelter of the front porch and stared into the pouring rain. Other side of the street, back entrance of the Theatre Comique was little more than a dull blur. Storm appeared to have abated a mite, but not much.

Evans pushed his way up to me before I could get away, “Got any idea who's for sure after the girl, Tilden? Could help if I knew who we should be on the lookout for.”

“Know exactly who's after her,” I said. “The Coltrane brothers, Jesse and Leroy. Evil skunks are some of the worst of the worst up in the Nations. Could have several of their friends along with them as well. Just never know when it comes to the Coltrane boys.”

“Mean we could be looking at a visit from more than just these Coltrane brothers?”

“Might be as many as half a dozen of their gang when they're all gathered, Bob. Maybe more. No definitive numbers that I'm aware of. But rumors do persist that Jesse and Leroy sometimes travel in the company of extremely bad men like C. W. Jemson, Bronson Staggers, Amos White, Jasper Neely, and others just as wicked. Have no way of knowing for sure who might come along for the ride till they actually show themselves.”

Sounded like squirrels breaking walnuts in his mouth, when Evans gritted his teeth. Rubbed his brow with one finger, then said, “I'll send another man over right behind you fellers. Sure wouldn't want anything happening to Miss Cassidy whilst under my watch. Want that gal away from here quick as possible, to tell the righteous truth.”

Stepped off the boardwalk, but Evans pulled me back out of the street. Clung to my sleeve and said, “There's one other thing, Marshal Tilden.”

“Yeah.”

Evans got up so close thought for a second there he just might go and kiss me. Sounded like the prophet of doom, when he hissed in my ear, “If'n I 'uz any of you boys, I'd be right damned careful around this particular little gal.”

Must admit his unexpected warning surprised me some. Said, “Yeah, and why's that, Bob?”

“She's one witchy woman, Tilden. True enough she's young, good-lookin' as hell, and all that, but there's something on the scary side 'bout the gal, too.”

“Scary?”

“Yeah. Can see it in her eyes, you take the time to really look. Made my blood run colder'n well water in January ever' time I've been around 'er. For some reason, she reminds me of a crazy woman lived back in my hometown. Leastways, folks always said she 'uz crazy. Know unsolicited advice ain't worth no helluva lot, but you'd best be mighty careful around Miss Daisy Cassidy.”

Slid away from Evans and back out into the downpour. Over one shoulder I called out, “Another man sitting outside the room's a good idea, Bob. Coltrane brothers are some ornery, vicious, cold-blooded bastards. Those who choose to run with them are just as bad, or maybe even worse.”

Behind me I heard Carl say, “Hayden's right. Coltrane boys are fully capable of killing Daisy Cassidy, all your men, and us, Bob. 'Specially if you give any of 'em half a chance and the ability to get behind you. Best tell all your boys that they should be especially wakeful till we can get the girl out of town.”

When my feet hit the muddy slog of Fort Worth's Rusk Street as we headed for the El Paso Hotel, swear to Jesus I had the sinking feeling of having stepped off into a pit of poisonous snakes. Suddenly got the shivers, along with a prickly sensation that crawled up and down my spine like foamy waves on a wind-tossed lake.

Got to thinking as how maybe a few drops of frozen rain might've dribbled off my hat brim and slipped behind the collar of my shirt. But then, the hair on my arms stood, and a numbing cold seemed to seep into my bones. Tried to shake off Officer Bob Evans's foolishness about Daisy Cassidy, but for some odd reason his words kept gnawing at my insides and ringing in my ears like Sunday morning church bells.

Man hadn't really said a lot, but by the time we reached the El Paso's lobby, he'd sure enough cocked my pistol.

NATE COMPLAINED OF a stomach that he said was trying to gnaw its way through the waist of his pants and belt buckle. So, we threw all our gear in the floor of the hotel room and headed across Third Street for the restaurant in the White Elephant Saloon.

Reporter for the
Fort Smith Elevator
once referred to the Elephant as “the most magnificent com-bi-nation gambling house, restaurant, and saloon in the entirety of the whole nation—bar none.” Man's somewhat sensational opinion couldn't be dismissed as much in the way of a stretcher, you ask me.

As we approached the joint, sounds of music, laughter, and good times to be had seeped from beneath the Elephant's bloodred batwing doors. Once inside, the eager visitor immediately found himself confronted by an impressive, carpeted staircase that led to the second floor and the most elaborate gambling setup in the whole of Texas.

Nate stood just inside the door, rubbed wet hands together, grinned like a hungry raccoon, and said, “Hot diggity damn, boys. Place looks even better'n it did the last time we were here. Been hopin' for a return visit for a whole year.”

Off to the left, across an expanse of lustrous hardwood floor, the longest, most elaborate bar for five hundred miles in any direction gleamed like a freshly polished decanter of the best whiskey hard-earned money could purchase. Men who wanted to eat, drink, keep company with willing women, or put their fat pokes at risk would've been hard-pressed to do any better than Luke Short's elaborate mixture of an eating, drinking, and gambling emporium. On that particular storm-tossed night in Fort Worth, anyway.

We scraped our muddy feet on a thick chunk of braided hemp rug that was especially laid out for that particular purpose. Let ourselves drip a bit before we slipped out of our rain slickers and other gear.

Carlton appeared truly taken by all the noise that flowed down onto us from the joint's elegant staircase, like the water falling in the street outside. Knew from our previous raid on Fort Worth that the table right on the edge of the landing above was piled a foot deep in gold coin. Whole glittery shebang was easy to see from where we stood. Impressive. Mighty damned impressive. Remember standing there, as lightning flashed across the heavens behind me, and trying to imagine the Elephant's impact on a first-time-to-visit, south Texas brush popper on his premier trip to the Kansas rail-heads, or the local Fort Worth cattle yards.

Inviting sounds of gambling and easy companionship washed right over us. Above us, I could hear the heavy marble in a roulette wheel as it spun around, bounced, and clicked into place, along with the musical clacking of at least one wheel of fortune being touted by a barker who must've drawn quite a crowd. Friendly, metallic, rinky-tink-tinkle of a piano ebbed and flowed over the rest of the sociable noises that rolled down those stairs and beckoned to the prospective, tight-fisted, leather-pounding gambler to come on up and put his hard-earned fortune on the line.

Good-looking gal from the restaurant, who reminded me some of my Elizabeth, took our rain gear and hats. She flashed Nate a smile that would've brought most men to their quaking knees. Boy's mind was somewhere else at the time. Had a damned fine meal that night. Back in them days, a man couldn't beat Fort Worth's beefsteak with a stick. Three of us were more than satisfied when the evening's repast came to an end.

Rubbed our stomachs as we stepped up to Luke Short's forty-foot-long, solid-mahogany filigree bar and ordered a drink to finish off a damned fine feed. Think we might've been well into our second beaker of Gold Label rye when Carlton leaned over and kind of secretlike said, “Take a gander in the mirror, Tilden. See them fellers sitting at the table over in the corner behind us?”

Puckered up and took a nibbling sip from my glass, then said, “Which corner?”

“Farthest one from us. One on our right. Far back as you can go. Kinda behind the piano.”

“I seen 'em, Carl,” Nate said. Storms suddenly looked right determined, when he threw his drink down in one quick swallow, thumped the glass back onto the bar, then rubbed chapped lips on his sleeve.

In an effort to get a look at whatever my friends might've seen, or thought they'd seen, I glanced into the Elephant's pride and joy—a gigantic, beveled slab of reflective, highly polished glass that covered the entire wall behind the joint's elaborate back bar. Spotted three shaggy, rough-looking types crammed into the corner like a bunch of hungry wolves all huddled up and checking out the sheep before they jumped out of hiding and killed one of them.

Feller in the middle of the group had his back wedged into the corner like he thought Jack McCall might return from the dead and put a bullet in the back of his head. Bearded, moustachioed, hook nosed, with long, stringy, gunmetal gray hair poking from under his hat, the squint-eyed piece of scum looked somewhat familiar. Scratched an itchy spot in my brain for several seconds. Even so, couldn't quite put a finger to a name for him.

Carl said, “Uh-huh. That's him alright, Tilden. The one and only C. W. Jemson. He's a back-shooting son of a bitch extraordinaire.”

“Yeah, well, 'course I've heard the name. Didn't really know the man well enough to recognize him though. Ugly bastard, ain't he,” I said, then took another run at the amber-colored liquid in my glass.

Carl leaned over on one arm, hunkered up next to me, and twirled his drink around in the wet spot beneath it on the bar. “Skinny twist of rusted barbed wire on Jemson's right hand is Bronson Staggers. Hear tell he covers Jemson's backside if'n they have difficulties requiring the quick death of them folks impertinent enough to get in their way. Piggy-lookin', fat-gutted slug on the left is Jasper Neely. Man'd just as soon rip out your guts as spit.”

Eyeballed the mirrored images again, then said, “Empty chair at the table, Carl. You reckon Amos White's around somewhere close? Or maybe one, or both, of the Coltrane boys?”

Sounded like a dog growling when Nate said, “Even if White ain't nowheres to be seen, Hayden, I'd be willing to bet the ranch, if'n I had a ranch, that Jesse and Leroy Coltrane are in absolute fact somewhere nearby. Probably out askin' questions. Prowlin' around tryin' to locate Daisy Cassidy.”

For fifteen or twenty seconds no one spoke, as we chewed on our drinks and studied the three thugs in the corner. Finally Carlton said, “Ain't got no official wants or warrants on any of them skunks, as I'm aware of. But, hell, we could slap 'em with a John Doe, then drag 'em all back to Fort Smith for anything you can dream up, Hayden.”

“Damn right,” Nate said. “No longer'n we've been standing here, pretty sure I've seen every one of them bastards expose his nasty-assed self at least twice to the cute little waitress that's been carryin' them drinks.”

Couldn't help but grin. “Well, not sure that'd stand up, Nate. Might work if we were back in the Nations, at a watering hole in west Arkansas, or, better yet, a saloon in Fort Smith. But, being as how we're in the great Lone Star State, would bet that wagging your hoo-haw at a barmaid might not count for much in Judge Parker's court.”

Nate crooked a finger at the Elephant's slick-pated, rail-thin bartender and pointed to each of our empty glasses for a refill. Appeared a bit on the anxious side when he dropped money on the bar, then said, “Well, whata you wanta do, Hayden? Ain't gonna just stand here and guzzle whiskey all night long, are we?”

Placed a calming hand on my friend's shoulder. Could tell he itched for a fight. Man had been keyed up ever since the horrific death of Rachael Little Cloud. Nate hadn't contributed much to that dustup, but he walked with a hitch in his git-along that constantly reminded him of the sorry event.

“Why don't we just stroll over and have a friendly talk with ole C. W. and his compadres,” I said. “Kinda shake the tree a bit. See what falls out when we rattle 'em around some, as it were.”

Could see Carlton smiling back at me in the mirror, when he said, “Now, there's a plan. 'Course, no matter how we handle this, them boys could get just a wee bit on the froggy side. Go to hoppin' around, pullin' pistols, shootin', and such.”

Nodded my agreement. Said, “Their kind of man does get nervous for little or nothing.”

Carl snorted, then said, “Hell, we just might be forced to drill a couple of 'em, Tilden. Maybe even kill one or two. Damn near a certainty if we provoke 'em in just the right way. Kill hell outta all three of 'em, we'd be doin' the Indian Nations—along with the states of Texas, Arkansas, Louisiana, and Mississippi—a by-God service, you ask me.”

Nate slapped his empty glass down on the bar again. “Now that's a helluva good plan. Discombobulate 'em a bit. Like it. Let's get on over there 'fore they have a chance to jackrabbit on us. Move in on 'em and do 'er just like you said, Carl. Brace 'em where they sit. Any of 'em goes to reachin' and grabbin', we kill the whole sorry bunch. Bet that'd put a sizable crimp in whatever the Coltrane boys have planned for Daisy Cassidy.”

Slipped the hammer thong off my belly gun, lifted the weapon, and let it settle into the well-used, oiled, leather sheath on its own. “Best limber up all your shooters, boys—belly guns and hip pistols. Sure wouldn't want to waltz over there and have Jemson and his friends get all chute crazy and not be able to get our weapons up and out for the kind of gun work we might have to do in a few minutes.”