Gun Work: The Further Exploits of Hayden Tilden (25 page)

“Knew as soon as we walked into that hotel room back in Fort Worth there was something wrong, Carl,” I said. “Just never expected anything to match this.”

Carl stared at his feet. Said, “If you'd a told me, when we left Fort Smith, that this chase would've worked out the way it has, pretty sure I'd of thought you'd lost your mind, and Elizabeth was gonna have to have you committed to the crazy house over in Benton.”

“Either of you ever had to drag a woman back to Maledon's gallows?” Nate asked, then climbed onto his mount.

Question came as something of a surprise, but we both said “No” at the same time.

“Ever had to kill one?”

Again, “No” in unison.

Stepped into the stirrups, threw my leg over Gunpowder's muscular back. “Then again, according to the Book, there's usually a first time for everything.”

As we turned our animals west again, Carl said, “Just have to wait and see what's waiting for us at Morgan's Cut, I guess.”

DREW OUR ANIMALS up on the east side of a wide, shallow, water-poor wash that slashed across the Abilene road as if the earth had opened up on its own and left a dried out, scabrous wound. Hard against the far bank of Morgan's Cut, a single line of rickety, clapboard buildings and gauzy canvas tents shimmered in the glare of early afternoon sunshine. Pitiful, forlorn spot reminded me of Lone Pine, up in the Nations, and the fight with Mordecai Staine.

Ramshackle structure, dead center of several smaller but similar buildings, sported a large, obviously handmade wooden sign emblazoned with the words HICKERSON'S CANTINA—BESTEST WHISKEY 'TWEEN HERE AND ABILENE. Almost a dozen drooping bangtails stood tethered to the seedy tavern's hitch rails.

“You figure the Coltrane bunch is in there, Tilden?” Carlton said.

“No way to be absolutely certain, but I'd bet my house on it. Bet Daisy Cassidy's in there, too,” I said.

Function of the other weather-beaten, dilapidated stores and shops roosting on either side of the notorious roadhouse proved unknowable, from our vantage point. They evidenced no billboards or markers to enlighten the passing traveler of their intentions.

Glanced over at Nate and could tell the sight affected him in much the same fashion as it had me. Watched as he limbered up his shotgun, attended to the death-dealing weapon's massive brass shells, then intently stared at the rough village less than a hundred yards from where we sat our mounts. Our memories of the blistering gunfight at Lone Pine remained fresh and near to the surface of our emotions.

He took a quick look my direction, flashed a nervous grin, then said, “Ever eat a deer-coo-kin, Tilden?”

Brought my big popper up and laid it across my saddle. “A deer-coo-kin, you say? Hear you right, Nate? A deer-coo-kin?”

“Yeah. Might well be the finest plate of victuals you could ever fork up and let slide down your gullet. Makes my mouth water just thinkin' 'bout how good one of 'em is. My grandpa could cook up a deer-coo-kin better'n anybody in Arkansas.”

Carlton made a piggish snorting sound, flipped the loading gate open on his belly gun, then, as he rolled the cylinder and eyed each round, said, “Aye God, Swords, this ain't another one a them Arkansas, stump-jumpin'-bayou-family recipes you're always comin' up with is it? Like fried craw-dads and other such lunatic ideas?”

Barrels of Nate's shotgun snapped into place with a loud metallic click. “Could be. Could very well be. Why? You got somethin' against my family's eatin' habits, Cecil?”

Carlton almost let the query pass, but couldn't keep his mouth shut. “Oh, hell, no. Just strikes me as a mite odd that this business with food always seems to come up right 'fore we're about to face the possibility of some fast-and-furious gun work. Can't remember as how I've ever heard you bring up the subject at any other time.”

From behind a narrow-eyed gaze, Nate stared across Morgan's Cut. A sudden, disconnected, distant look played across the man's face as his smile bled away. “Damn. Believe you're right, Carl,” he mumbled, as if talking to himself. “Never really thought of it just exactly that way. Somethin' about hunger and the expectation of the air being laced with gun smoke and hot lead just has the unique power to drive me to thoughts of hearth, home, and food, I suppose. Must be why the deer-coo-kin came to mind.”

Left the horses beneath a sixty-foot cottonwood that hovered over the road on our side of the cut. Ground at the base of the tree was layered two feet deep in brown, sunbaked leaves. Figured there were roots as big as a grown man's leg spreading out atop the unseen earth in every direction from the tree's thick trunk.

Guns at the ready, we heeled our way into the arid stream-bed. Midway, Carlton said, “Well, Swords, we'll be right in the lion's den in a minute or so. You gonna tell us 'fore this dance starts or not?”

Water-smoothed gravel crunched beneath our feet, as we strode toward Hickerson's crude roadhouse. Could hear the subtle amusement in Nate's voice, when he said, “Why, what on earth do you mean? Tell you what, Carl?”

“Tell us what'n the blue-eyed hell a deer-coo-kin is, for the love of sweet Mary? Can't just leave a man hanging out here in the wind a wonderin' about such things, now can you? Wouldn't want to go to my Maker, in a few minutes, a wonderin' what'n the hell a deer-coo-kin is. Would hate to spend eternity with such an unanswered poser a-plaguing me.”

“Oh, so now you want to know about deer-coo-kins? That it, Carl?”

As we stepped onto the west bank of the cut, Nate almost laughed when he said, “Okay, here's the deal. First, you field dress a deer. Rub the carcass down with every kinda spice you can lay your hands on, inside and out. Use whatever you've got. Don't really matter. Fill the carcass with a couple of chopped coons and enough chicken meat to fill 'er up, along with lots of salt and pepper. Any kinda root vegetables handy. Truss 'er up good and tight. Put 'er on a spit. Roast 'er till she's ready to eat. My God, makes my mouth water just tellin' you about it.”

Three of us came to a rocking halt less than a hundred feet from the cow-country oasis's shabby, sunblasted front entrance. Heard Carl let out a low chuckle, then he said, “Sweet merciful father. So you take a deer, stuff it with some coons, couple a chickens, and some vegetables. Then you roast the whole deal over an open fire and you've got yourself a deer-coo-kin? That's what you're talkin' 'bout, right?”

Toothy grin creaked its way across Nate's face. Boy made loud, smacking noises, then licked his lips. “There you go, Carl. Aye Godfrey, that puppy's the best eatin' this side of a corn-fed, Kansas City T-bone. Guaranteed.”

Carl pulled the hammers back on his big popper. Swept the front of Hickerson's with one final flinty gaze, then said, “Get back to Fort Smith we'll have you cook us one of 'em. Do it out front of Tilden's house. Have a picnic down by the river. Make a day of it.”

“Sounds like a winner to me,” I said. “But, right now, we've got to take care of this little problem.”

“Gonna brace 'em inside, or call 'em out?” Carl said.

“No point calling them out. Might start shooting from the windows and doors,” I said. “Best go on in after them, I suppose. Once we get inside, whatever comes our way, don't hesitate. You see a threat, either of you, drop the hammer on it. We'll argue about the consequences later.”

Carlton didn't look at me when he said, “Don't see me sittin' on my gun hand, do you?”

Nate shot a corner of the eye look at me. “What about the girl, Hayden? If she's inside and comes up a threat, how should we handle it?”

“Well, near as I can tell that gal's had a direct hand in at least five brutal murders that bordered on butchery. Along with an indirect connection to the killing of her father. Wouldn't want her too close to me with a knife or hatchet in her hand.”

My friends both nodded, but I could tell that despite their firsthand knowledge of Daisy Cassidy's potential for bloody violence, they were still uncomfortable with the possibility of being the person responsible for sending a woman to Satan with a bullet in her head. Made me more than a bit uneasy when I recognized that reluctance so late in the chase.

“Do what you think best,” I said. “But make damned sure you protect yourselves. And don't waver, shilly-shally, or let your emotions get in the way. Understood?”

Nate nodded.

Carlton grunted.

“Well, guess we'd best get this dance started,” I said. “You ready?”

Nate grabbed the brim of his hat and pulled it down tighter. “I 'uz born ready, Tilden, and you know it. So, let's put the spurs to 'er and see which way she hops.”

Carlton let out another animalistic grunt.

We took the steps out front of Hickerson's as one man. Pushed our way through a rickety set of batwings that complained like a pair of stomped tomcats. Heavy odors of whiskey, tobacco, sweat, dirt, and a triple-deep layer of puke-soaked sawdust on the floor flooded my nose and made my eyes water as we crossed into the backwater tavern's waiting, interior gloom.

Soon as we'd made our way over the rustic liquor locker's threshold, Nate hooked a quick right and set up in a spot near the end of a coarse bar made of nothing more than rough-cut, two-by-twelve pine boards laid atop empty whiskey kegs.

Carl drifted to the corner on my left. He covered that entire side of the single, narrow, poorly furnished room with a wide sweep of his big blaster's open muzzle.

There were three tables along the wall opposite the bar, a fourth in the corner, and one more at the far end of the joint's makeshift serving counter. Place was hopping busy. Not an empty chair to be had. Not much available in the way of standing room.

Only nod to anything like decoration consisted of numerous stuffed animals, or their disembodied heads, hanging in a slapdash fashion on the walls. Joint even sported a stuffed rattlesnake sitting on the bar near the slick-pated drink slinger's right hand.

I shot a side-to-side glance around the room and almost laughed out loud. Only a single overflowing spittoon in the entire, depressing place, near as I could tell. Tobacco-stained pot was ten feet away, but I could smell it.

As soon as we came through the door, the crowd parted and I spotted the Coltrane boys and two other men. No way to have missed Benny's brother, Jesse, seated at the table in the farthest corner. Draped over the man, like a blond-haired human blanket, Daisy Cassidy had her tongue so far into his ear set me to wondering if she might be trying to lick a clean spot in his brain.

Bearded giant on Jesse Coltrane's immediate left and his dwarflike companion both pricked a familiar place in my memory. Figured the pair for Ennis Buckheart and his vicious little traveling companion, Egger Salt. Buckheart looked like a battle-scarred grizzly wearing a stovepipe hat. Salt brought a twelve-year-old child with the face of an ancient codger to mind.

I knifed a flint-eyed glance Carl's direction. Appeared he recognized Jesse and his friends as well. Could tell Carl had already assessed the situation and made a quick, calculated decision on how to handle it.

Guess our arrival didn't register on the Coltrane bunch, at first. Either that, or they were considerably stupider, and less attentive, than men carrying their kinds of reputations should have been. Or maybe the hundred-fifty-proof, who-hit-john skull pop they were throwing down had simply burned up enough brain matter to make them dim-witted in the extreme.

Managed to get near halfway across the room before most of the raw joint's other, more alert patrons realized that bony-fingered death had just shown up in the form of three hard-eyed men carrying shotguns. Of a sudden, that godforsaken roadhouse went to emptying out like water running over the lip of an overfilled rain barrel in a south Texas thunderstorm.

Heavy thump of booted feet on the boardwalk outside, and sound of animals leaving for parts unknown, quickly followed. In a matter of seconds, Hickerson's saloon got quieter than the inside of a dead horse.

As Carl sometimes liked to say, joint suddenly got so quiet you could hear amorous mice making wild-assed whoopee behind the wallboards. I would have sworn the air on every side of me crackled.

PRETTY SURE DAISY Cassidy spotted me first. Couldn't have been more than ten feet away when the girl sliced a wicked, heavy-lidded glance my direction. She hopped off a hatless Jesse Coltrane's knee like the seat of her dress had somehow caught on fire. Girl brought the back of one hand up to twitching lips and sucked in air as if she had, unexpectedly, found herself at the bottom of a mile-deep lake.

Something about the Cassidy gal's steely, blue-eyed gaze had definitely changed since I last saw her back in the El Paso Hotel. Though no expert in such matters, by any stretch of the imagination, came to the immediate and inescapable realization that I stared into the face of madness. Madness so deeply entrenched as to be unfathomable. The change shocked and amazed me. Skin between my shoulder blades prickled. A cold chill ran down my sweaty spine as I returned her unhinged, glaring gaze.

Barely heard it when Daisy let out a peculiar, hacking giggle, batted her eyes at me as though flirting with a prospective lover, then, between fingers pressed against pouty lips, said, “Oh, my glorious God. I don't believe this.”

His arm still draped around the swaying girl's waist, Jesse Coltrane appeared totally unconcerned. As if the grim-looking man a few feet away holding a shotgun didn't exist, he fiddled with a half-filled whiskey glass and continued jawing with the three other jokers at the table. I could see the hands of every man there, except those of Ennis Buckheart.