Gun Work: The Further Exploits of Hayden Tilden (3 page)

“Feeling better by then, I take it.”

“Yep. Feeling right peppy when we stepped outside to have a smoke before we headed our prisoners on their way toward Tishomingo. About then, five men came storming up directly across Wagon Wheel's only thoroughfare. They were slinging dirt clods and dust here and yonder. Whooping, hollering, and yelping like a bunch of kicked dogs. Made a hell of a racket.”

“Did you recognize any of them?”

“ 'Course I did. Three of them were Potsy's more-than-worthless brothers. Butch, Leroy, and Clem. Knew all those boys on sight. But I couldn't put a name to either of the other two scruffy-looking skunks.”

“Sounds like a bad situation that was about to get worse.”

“Well, just could've been. But only if me and Carl had forgot to carry our scatterguns along with us when we went inside Earline's place to eat.”

“So, you had your shotguns in hand?”

“Yep. Pockets filled with shells, too.”

“And then what happened?”

“Ah, yeah. Now try to picture this, Junior. We took our stand right behind where ole Potsy was chained up, on the boardwalk outside Earline's front door. Those bastards twirled their mounts around, then jumped off them. Spread out in a shoulder-to-shoulder line and hoofed it our direction before a body even had a chance to think twice.”

“You could tell they meant business.”

“No doubt in my mind what they intended. Bet they weren't twenty feet away when Butch, oldest and meanest of them Tally boys, went to reaching and grabbing for iron. He managed to get one pistol loose. Sent a blue whistler our direction that knocked my hat off. Brand-new Stetson. Hadn't got a month's worth of wear out of it. 'Course, rest of that bunch of churnheads took his lead and grabbed for their weapons as well.”

“Which one of you lawmen returned fire first?”

“Not sure. Think it might have been Carlton.”

“Carlton?”

“Yeah. Man never was much for messing around when it came to killing bad men. He'd drop the hammer on one of them faster than lickety-split.”

“So you think Carl fired first?”

“Was a long time ago, Junior, but seems like Carl touched off both barrels of that ten-gauge blaster of his and took out the whole right side of ole Butch's line of would-be killers. Knocked down a couple or three of them boys as was already firing at us. Half an eye blink later, I cut loose. My God, sounded like the thunderous wrath of God had come down on that street. Sweet merciful Jesus, we dropped a curtain of buckshot on them ole boys that would've killed an entire company of Yankee cavalry.”

“Was my understanding this was a gunfight. Your rendition makes it sound like something closer to an execution.”

“Well, don't go and get all misty-eyed and feeling sorry for them bastards, Junior. They started the whole dance and were as game as it gets. Sons a bitches went down shooting. Three of them ended up on their knees after our initial volley. They peppered the whole front of Earline's place with pistol fire. Hot lead, splintered wood, and broken glass filled the air all around me and Carl like buzzing bees.”

“Any place to hide?”

“Not much of one. Ended up rolling around on our bellies and backs behind a water trough next to the hitch rail. Those three remaining shooters did their level best to turn that trough into a screen door. Bullets pounded those water-soaked boards like someone had taken to beating on them with a ball-peen hammer. Have to admit, caught in that hailstorm of lead proved one of the very few times I actually got to wondering about my safety and future prospects of staying alive.”

“What about Potsy Tally?”

“Ah. Sad tale there. Genuinely pitiful situation. Man came to a bad end. Real bad. See, unfortunately for ole Potsy, his chains didn't give him enough room to maneuver his way to safety.”

“Don't tell me.”

“Glanced over at the man just about the time a stray whistler, fired by one of his very own compadres, caught him in the right temple. Hell, could have been one of his own brothers killed the man, for all I know.”

“God Almighty.”

“Yeah. Big ole forty-five slug blew the poor sucker's head completely apart. Splattered most of his pea-sized brain all over Earline's boardwalk and café doors. Man's exploding skull bore a striking resemblance to a watermelon being blown up. Hair, skull bone, and brain matter sprayed all over creation. Can't imagine how it happened, but one of ole Potsy's eyeballs popped loose and hit me square in the chest. And, hell, I was stretched out on my back ten or fifteen feet away.”

“Good God.”

“Carlton saw what happened. Picked the eyeball off my chest. Held it up and yelled, ‘Reckon he can still see us?' Then he turned the horrid thing around so it was looking at him, said, ‘Can you see me, Potsy?' Then, you ain't gonna believe this, Carl laid that ghastly thing up on the edge of the water trough. Turned it around so it was looking toward the street at its friends. Then, Carlton went and busted out laughing, lying on his back in the dirt, right there in the middle of that hellish scene, laughing like a madman.”

“That's just awful.”

“Well, Junior, it's been my experience that people often do strange things when Death's lurking around looking for his next victim. Ain't any worse than when Carl shot Jackson Boosher.”

“Hate to ask. What was so awful about shooting Jackson Boosher?”

“Caught up with ole Jackson in an outhouse. 'Course he was kind of preoccupied what with reading the Montgomery Ward catalogue and doing his business. Anyway, Carl riddled the place with a load of buckshot. Kicked the door down and Jackson was still sitting on the crapper when he died. Catalogue was opened to the women's corset section.”

“Good God. Don't try to sidetrack me with something worse than flying eyeballs. Now, what'd you do about the men in Wagon Wheel who were still alive and shooting at you?”

“Rolled around behind that water trough, till we got our shotguns reloaded. Waited till some of the general blasting coming from the street calmed down a bit. Figured as how most of them ole boys was dead or dying. But just to make sure, we jumped up and hit them with four more barrels of hot lead.”

“Four more barrels of ten-gauge buckshot?”

“Was a sight to behold, Junior. My God but the street around them poor bastards exploded in a cloud of flying dirt, rendered flesh, shredded clothing, and roiling clouds of spent, acrid-tasting gunpowder. Veritable cyclone of man-killing lead went through that crew of would-be bad men like a red-hot hay sickle. Our blasting hit them straight on. Storm of lead caused a vaporous spray of pinkish-red blood in the air. Looked like pink steam wafting off a fresh-stoked Baldwin engine—”

At this point one of the nurses, a striking, black-haired, blue-eyed young woman named Heddy McDonald, sashayed up and interrupted our conversation. She insisted that Tilden accompany her to his midday meal. Wouldn't take no for an answer. Think he was inclined to resist. But she tempted him with one of his favorite desserts—lime jello spiked with fruit salad and extra bits of banana and pineapple. Man's a born-again sucker for the stuff.

Tilden winked, ponderously hoisted himself out of his favorite chair, and shuffled away. I watched as he and the girl headed down the hall toward the cafeteria, arm in arm, like a pair of lovers. General Black Jack Pershing, the persnickety cat, appeared out of somewhere unknowable and trailed behind. At the dining hall's door, Tilden turned, big toothy grin on his weathered face, and waved.

 

 

Must admit I do spend way too much time worrying about the old marshal. He's as fine a gentleman as I've ever had the good fortune to call a friend. Know that sooner or later his age will catch up with him.

Additionally, I fear that, despite his gallant bluster, the old man's nights are likely filled with a legion of vengeance-seeking, bloodthirsty ghosts. Would bet the family manse, along with whatever in the way of inheritance might be forthcoming, that those phantoms come riding out of the gray-black miasma of his epic past right up to the old man's bedside every night. Not sure I would have anything like the will necessary to deal with such a frightening and terrifying possibility. Seriously doubt few men live, in these days of automobiles and worsted wool suits, who would, either.

Over the past two years or so I have heard him recite numerous tales of his violent and tumultuous past. Suppose it's a good thing Chief Nurse Leona Wildbank took the old man's pistols away from him. God help the ghost who approaches Hayden Tilden if he has a weapon in his hand.

 

Notes taken by my hand,

 

Franklin J. Lightfoot Jr.

AIN'T SURE EXACTLY when it went and happened, but I've done got so old it feels like I'm living on borrowed time and three of my payments, to the God that allows it, are way past due. If Carlton J. Cecil was still full of beans and kicking, he'd probably say something like, “Yeah, the Dead Sea wasn't even sick when Hayden Tilden got born. Man came into this world ten years before them gals found Moses floating down the Nile in a wicker basket. Yep, best thing you can say 'bout the man is that the spring's done gone out of his chicken.”

Given as how I'm undeniably facing the very real prospect of shambling into the first year of my tenth decade pretty quick, seems I can't get through a week without some idiot asking me what I've learned over such a long, tumultuous, and blood-drenched life. Well, since random busybodies seem so interested, here are a few thoughts I've had on that particular subject.

Ain't gonna offer up any guarantees that my fractured ruminations on longevity will help anyone all that much, but what follows is a bit of heartrending wisdom I wish had come to me a lot earlier than it did. Pay attention, buckaroos and buckarettes, because this is the important part of my message. Here goes—no matter how hard a man tries he can never escape his past.

Given that the modern mind can't remember anything longer than a few seconds, feel this bit of wisdom is so profound it bears repeating. So, for the benefit of those so dumb they think the Mexican border ought to pay rent, I'll phrase it in a manner where even they can't miss the meaning. No matter how hard you try, friends and neighbors, you'll never get free of what you've done.

Sounds simple enough, doesn't it? But trust me, it's not. In my nearly ninety years I've found that good works are likely to go unnoticed, unrewarded, and quickly fade into the fog of time and memory. Conversely, Lord help us, the bad ones come back to haunt us. Truth is, just ain't no getting away from who we were and what we might have done—good, bad, or indifferent.

And worst of all, a body just never knows when one of his ugliest, most carefully guarded of memories or secrets will rear its Hydra-like head. Usually takes place when a feller least expects it. As a general rule, mine typically come to me in the middle of the night, when one of the old gummers down the hall goes to screaming like a lunch whistle at a south Arkansas sawmill.

I've been in this depot for prospective corpses several years now. Still can't get a reasonable explanation from any of the staff as to exactly what causes such midnight terrors. Only way I can figure it is that those folks doing all the screaming are witness to the events of their pasts. Pasts that somehow come back to life. Truly does seem as how the ghosts of long ago and far away like to visit more often as we grow older.

And for their own unfathomable reasons, occurs to me that visiting spirits usually tend to show their ugly faces between midnight and sunup. But not always. Take it from a man who's studied the subject up close and personal, getting old is sometimes a damn sight more than a body can take—night or day.

Couple a weeks ago me and Black Jack were napping out on the sunporch. Snapped out of a wildly pleasant daydream about my dear Elizabeth. Heard people yelling and hollering down the hall toward the dayroom. Before a body could spit, sounded like furniture getting turned over, busted up, and dragged around. Then, glass went to breaking. Women started crying and members of the staff went to running up and down the hall.

Pushed the cat out of my lap and hobbled down that direction. Met one of the orderlies, big ole kid named Horace Bow-man. He came huffing past me with blood streaming down the side of his face like somebody had hit him in the head with an ax. Next thing I knew, pair of the more brutish orderlies, kind of guys who looked like they lived under the front porch and you could roller skate on them, flew past me and darted through the dayroom door.

Edged up to the entry and peeked inside. Them big ole thuggish-looking boys had Thurmond Gaston pinned up in a corner, far side of the wrecked room. Thurmond waved a butcher knife the size of a meat cleaver back and forth at them, like he knew how to use it. In my personal opinion, there's just nothing more dangerous than a man determined to kill you and who has a knife handy.

One of the thugs, guy sporting a scar down his left cheek from hairline to chin, yelled, “Gimme the goddamned knife, old bastard.”

Wild-eyed and crazy-looking, Thurmond grinned like a thing insane. “Come git it, you son of a bitch. Carve you up like a Sunday chicken.”

Given the rarity and oddity of such events here at Rolling Hills, got to admit, I was shocked right down to the soles of my slippers. Shocked and amazed. Hadn't expected anything like a knife fight when I checked in. Body just doesn't anticipate such an event in an old folks home, now, would you?

Argument between Thurmond and Scarface went on for a good five minutes and wasn't going anywhere. Strolled over to the action about the time Scarface's partner, feller named Buddy Johnson, got froggy. He took a jump Thurmond's direction. Came away with one hand sliced open all the way to the bone. Stupid jackass went running out of the dayroom, slinging blood all over hell and yonder. Howled like a kicked dog till I couldn't hear him anymore.