Nate Coffin's Revenge (16 page)

Spent black powder spooled across the room in a dense cloud, and almost hid my view of the slow-moving lowlife as he slid to the floor in a growing pool of his own gore. Mouthy murderer’s broken corpse rolled under the table and flopped like a chicken that’d just had its neck wrung for Sunday supper. Flying blood and mess from his loosened bowels sprayed everything that couldn’t move or get out of the way.

’Bout a dozen pieces of stray lead had peppered both the evil skunks sitting at the front table before they could dive out of the muzzle blast’s path. Went to howling like whipped dogs. Hopped up and started slapping at spots in their clothing that sent out wispy strands of gray smoke, along with minor spurts of bright red blood here and there.

Through the bluish-gray fog I’d put into the dense overheated air, Mr. Eye Patch, trembling hands held high over his head, yelped, “
Por Dios!
No shoot no more. No need for thees, Rangers. No one ees draw-ing on you hombres.
Es mi promesa, amigos.
”

We forced all them polecats left alive against the back wall. Boz provided cover while I did everything possible to disarm the snaky crew of kidnappers and killers. Took near twenty weapons off five men, not including all the knives.

One runty little gringo feller had six Colt pistols and one of those big ole French Le Mats on him. That’s a hell of a heavy load to tote around. Man packed so much death-dealing iron, it’s a wonder he didn’t have debilitating back problems, or at least a case of painful kidney stones.

Pitched his last shooter aside and said, “Damn. Can’t even begin to imagine how a squirt like you manages to stand upright and walk with a load like this.”

He sneered, “Gimme my guns back and I’ll show you Ranger scum just how tough a man I really am, by God.”

Made him madder when I grinned real big and said, “Not today. Maybe another time.”

Finally got the whole crew against the wall and facing us again. Boz waved his weapon back and forth, and snapped, “Little gunfire and death don’t change nothing. Still need an answer to the same question. Where’s the woman you boys brought to town?”

Couldn’t help but chime in, “And unless you want to end up like the leaky Mr. Tiner over there, somebody had best get to talkin’ and right damned quick.”

Second or so passed with no response. Breeched my shotgun, pulled out the spent shell casing, and pitched it toward Eye Patch. Big piece of brass rolled across the floor till it hit the heel of his boot and clinked off the rowel of a silver spur.

Replaced the exhausted round with a fresh load. Snapped the weapon shut, cocked both hammers, and brought the muzzle up. Pointed the sawed-off weapon at a bone-thin wretch in the middle of the line. He flashed a mouthful of tobacco-rotted teeth from a grinning, pockmarked face that resembled the surface of a full moon in October.

Ugly wretch went to hopping from foot to foot. Yelped, “D-d-don’t get all t-t-twitchy-fingered on me there, Ranger. Ain’t no call to shoot. Swear ’fore Jesus, I’ll tell you whatever you want.”

From the corner of his mouth, Eye Patch muttered, “
Cerra la boca,
Harkey.”

Got to give ole ugly-mouthed Harkey credit. He didn’t let what was said intimidate him much. “You go to hell, Martinez. You wanna die, go right on ahead. Lead on. Sure these fellers will help you along the way to a handshaking acquaintance with Satan and eternal damnation. Just like they done for Smoky yonder. Think I’ll stick around the livin’ a bit longer.”

Boz bored in on the talker. “Here’s your chance for a little in the way of redemption, Harkey. For the third and last time, where’s the woman?”

“Ain’t for certain sure, and that’s the God’s truth, Ranger. No one here could testify to her present location with any real confidence. We turned the lady over to Nate Coffin. Right in this very spot. Ain’t a man here that don’t know that.”

I took an angry step his direction and snapped, “Had she come to any harm from you or your sorry compadres’ efforts?”

“Not from me, and not as I could see. Coffin made it crystal clear when he sent us out that he wanted the woman totally unharmed. In pristine condition, as it were. Leastways, that’s what he said, pristine. Ain’t exactly sure what ’at ’ere word means.”

“Where is she now?” Boz asked.

“Nate told us as how he was a-takin’ her down to his ranch between here and Carrizo Springs. Had mentioned in the past as how he figured to use her for a spell, and then send her across the border. His place ain’t that far from here. Just head south a bit over twenty miles. Cain’t miss the turn to the east. Got a sign right out on the road. It’s called Rancho Paraíso. Toward the Nueces. Take you there, if ’n you want.”

Martinez’s English cleared up considerable when he turned to our informant and very distinctly said, “Your life ain’t worth a bag of week-old Oklahoma chicken shit, Harkey.” Came to me that the man’s show of broken Mexican speaking was just that—show.

Boz motioned for Harkey to step out. Snaggle-toothed outlaw appeared much relieved. “Won’t regret it, fellers. Swear you won’t regret it,” he said as he hustled over and took a spot behind us.

“What are we gonna do with the rest of ’em, Boz?”

“Townhall Plaza is the next one up the street. Got a serviceable jail there, if memory serves. We’ll lock ’em up. Maybe come back and get ’em later. Maybe just leave ’em there to rot.”

Harkey coughed and kind of waved like he wanted Boz’s attention. “Nate Coffin owns everything around these parts, Ranger. Includin’ Marshal Barton Pitt. You lock these here fellers up in Pitt’s jail, they won’t be there when you come back five minutes later. Probably be out lookin’ to kill you boys.”

“Don’t like to admit it, but he’s got a point, Boz,” I said.

Tatum shook his head and gazed at the floor for a second. Then, he snapped a glance my way and said, “Main reason for keeping these snakes alive would be the open charges in Salt Valley concerning the murder of Deputy Jiles. But the very dead feller under the table yonder just confessed to that ’un. Guess we’ll just have to kill ’em where they stand.”

Gunny dressed in the Yankee cavalry duds flinched like he’d been slapped in the face with a dead skunk. “Now, wait just a damned minute here. You cain’t just go and execute us like unarmed dogs. By God, that ain’t nowhere close to bein’ lawful, right, or proper.”

Boz threw his head back and let out a devilish cackle that made my skin crawl. Then, he nailed all those no-accounts to the wall with a fierce stare. “As of this instant, I’m all the law you boys might ever get a chance to see in this part of Texas—arresting officer, judge, jury, and executioner. And given the reasons behind us havin’ this conversation in the first place, killin’ you fellers would seem the easiest solution to a real prickly problem.”

Former soldier must have had some lawyer in him. Said, “What if we promise to ride like hell out of Uvalde. Not come back. Get as far away from here as possible. Swear ’fore Jesus you let me go, I’ll never come back this way long as I live.”

Almost in unison Scar Face, Eye Patch, and the other one said, “
Sí, senor.
Leave plenty pronto. No come back.”

Boz glanced my direction again. I shrugged. “Still think it best that we lock ’em up. Wouldn’t trust anything this bunch promises. If Marshal Pitt turns ’em out, we’ll just lock him up in his own jail. Besides, it’s gonna make one helluva mess if we kill ’em all here.”

“Well, then, that decides it,” Boz said. “You bastards keep your hands in the air. Get to hoofin’ it for the
juzgado
. Any treachery, and I will kill all of you.”

Harkey might have been a skunk, but he knew the local marshal for what he was. We left our newly found informant sitting on the boardwalk outside the jail. Boz shook a finger in Harkey’s face and said, “Don’t you rabbit on me. Swear to God, I’ll run you to ground and make you wish your mother never delivered you into this life.”

Harkey got all wounded, hurt, and indignant. “Jesus, Ranger. My momma didn’t raise no broke-brained idiots. Swear I’ll be waitin’ right here like a milk-raised hound dog when you come back out.”

A barrel-bellied Barton Pitt met us and our angry gang of captives inside the door of his lockup. He immediately went into long-winded and strenuous objections at Coffin’s men being incarcerated in his wretched hoosegow.

Once the jumpy star wearer realized we intended to force the issue over his heated protests, he held his hands out and waved at us like a troubled old maid. “Cain’t do ’er, gents. Cain’t let you house these fellers in my jail. Hell, might as well cut my own throat, right here, right now. You’re bound to be aware of the precarious nature of my position. What with Nate Coffin bein’ so close and all.”

Boz ended the conversation when he laid his shotgun on the trembling man’s shoulder and said, “Hand me the key, you useless gob of guts, and get the hell out of my way.”

Poor marshal got a horror-stricken look on his ruddy, swollen face like he’d just been confronted by the very real possibility of his own mortality. “Jesus Christ, Rangers, please,” he whined.

As we pushed our prisoners past him, and into his empty cells, he moaned, “Coffin
will
find out about this. He’ll come blowin’ into town, kill me deader than a rotten fence post, and turn all these men loose ’fore the sun goes down.”

Paperbacked, and full of bright-yellow mustard, the lawman’s cowardly attitude hit me the exact wrong way. Had heard a similar bellyaching complaint in Willow Junction. “Good God Almighty,” I shot back. “Ain’t no wonder blood letters and badmen run rampant in west Texas. Everyone wearin’ a badge out this way is as scared as a jackrabbit in a coyote’s hip pocket. Enough to make real men sick to our stomachs.”

Boz slammed the last iron-barred cell door closed, and turned the key with a resounding and authoritative metallic click. Swung around on Pitt and threw the keys back at him. “Don’t be worryin’ about Coffin, Marshal. You’ve got a much closer and more immediate concern. If I come back here and these men have somehow managed to escape, or got sprung by friends, or called to Heaven by golden-winged angelic messengers fresh from the throne of the living God, you’ll have to answer to me.”

Just to put some final emphasis on the point, I slapped the agitated lawman on the back and added, “Best do what the man says, Mr. Pitt. Nate Coffin is so sweet he’d cause a cavity in an elephant’s tusk compared to Boz Tatum.” Pitt threw me back the look of a man about to have a killer stroke.

Out on the boardwalk, Harkey hopped up and grinned like an escaped lunatic. “You fellers all ready to go?”

Boz shouldered his shotgun, scratched his chin, and looked thoughtful. He pulled me away from the cooperative outlaw and almost whispered, “Let’s gather our animals up, Lucius. But before we head for the Coffin stronghold, think it best we enlist a bit of death-dealing assistance.”

“Death-dealing assistance? What have you got in mind, Boz?”

“Old and dear friend of mine lives a piece west of town. He could well be the decidin’ factor in any action we take.”

“Wouldn’t mind havin’ another gun along for the ride, that’s for certain sure.”

“Not to put too fine an edge on the situation, Lucius, but the truth is I don’t necessarily have what you could call anything like complete trust in this snake Harkey. One or the other of us will probably have to keep an eye on him, lest he double-cross us right into an early grave.”

“Don’t worry, Boz,” I said, “I’ll watch him.”

We started back toward the cantina to pick up our animals, and motioned for Harkey to follow. I slapped Boz on the back and said, “Is there any part of Texas where you don’t have friends?”

“Not as I’m aware of. My dear ole white-haired, sainted pappy always told me as how it pays not to burn your bridges behind you as you ride through the difficult trials and tribulations of this life. Thus far, that ill-educated horse raiser has proven out as absolutely correct. Nothing to match havin’ friends you can call on in times of dire need. Right now, we require the assistance of a big gun. And I just happen to know where to find the biggest of ’em all, retired Ranger Ox Turnbow.”

“Jesus, Boz, you know the one and only Ox Turnbow?”

“Not only do I know him, but the old bandit owes me big-time. And if memory serves, he’s less than ten miles from where we’re standin’ right this minute.”

13

“GUNSMOKE AND BLOOD, BY GOD . . .”

WE POINTED OUR animals north and west toward the Nueces River. Harkey trailed behind like a whipped dog. Maybe five miles out of town, Boz turned us back south, along a narrow track that led into the rough-and-tumble of low mesquite-littered bluffs, grass-covered hills, and rocky ravines.

Hadn’t gone all that far when we came on a rude wooden sign with lettering burned into it with a hot running iron. Rough marker warned wayward travelers that YORE ON OX TURNBOW’S LAND—GO BACK OR GIT KILT DEAD.

Pointed message got my undivided attention. Said, “Reckon your former amigo would shoot us, Boz?”

“Could easily happen. Ox always has been just about two shades meaner’n horned Satan hisself. But I doubt he’d plug an old compadre.” He thought on my question a second or so longer, and then added, “Just to be on the safe side of the question, we’ll tie us a piece of white rag to our rifle barrels. Hold ’em skyward, butts against our saddles. Don’t think he’d shoot anyone under a white flag. Hope not leastways.”

Harsh path eventually narrowed down between scrub-infested, steep-walled bluffs to a point where the trail got tight for any more than two animals to pass abreast. Sheer, natural barriers on either side quickly added to the cramped and uncomfortable feelings that already plagued my overactive and fevered mind.

Boz led the way, and reined up of a sudden. Couldn’t see around him to what had hindered our progress. But then I heard him say, “Damnation, Ox. You wouldn’t go and plug an old friend, now would you?”