Nate Coffin's Revenge (3 page)

Boz assumed a sagelike, chin-stroking pose, nodded, and said, “Absolutely, Cap’n. Damned right. Couldn’t agree more. Me and Lucius feel exactly the same way, by God. We’ll get ’im and see justice is done. Bring ole Buster back to hang. Cain’t have such ignorant brutality runnin’ amuck right here in town like this.”

Culpepper, furrowed lines of concern etched into a haggard face, heaved his bulk out of a dilapidated camp chair, and moved around to our side of a Civil War campaign table, dented and scarred by time and heavy use.

He clapped iron-fingered hands on my shoulder and Boz’s. “Know you boys won’t ever mention it to my wife, but Mattie Osborn’s an old friend. We go way back. All the way to the time before Fort Worth amounted to much more’n a bump in the west Texas wind. You’re the best men I’ve got. Never fail to do whatever’s necessary. Know you’ll bring Caldwell back, if you can, or kill him, if you have to. Whichever way it falls out, want you to find the murderin’ skunk, and make sure he don’t never kill another woman.”

’Course, we promised we would. Chased Caldwell through the briars and brambles all around Abilene. Running gun battle that covered every foot of five miles developed once we finally spotted him. Hunt ended when we cornered his sorry self in a stand of timber along a rugged, unnamed, snag-filled arroyo, a bit south of the Colorado River. Efforts at persuading the murdering skunk to consider surrender, with an abundance of hot lead and heated threats, failed. Buster wasn’t havin’ none of it.

He’d managed to hide behind an enormous fallen cottonwood lodged in the creek bank after his horse pulled up lame. Burrowed himself in like an Alabama tick and yelled, “You fellers best go on back to Fort Worth. Swear I’ll kill anyone what gets too close. ’Specially you law-bringin’ Ranger sons of bitches.”

Threw out a thick blanket and got comfortable. Laid on my back behind a sizable chunk of rock, and rolled myself a smoke. Pitched a shot or two over my shoulder every so often, just to give ole Buster something to think about. Boz did his best Comanche tiptoe to flank the murderin’ weasel.

Took a puff, blew a nice smoke ring toward heaven, and yelled back, “Might as well give it up, Buster. We don’t want to kill you, you son of a bitch, but we will if you force it.”

Dolphus Twiggens still occupied a blood-saturated spot in my mind, but from all I’d seen, Caldwell appeared less than half that horse killer’s size. And besides, he couldn’t shoot worth a sack full of horse apples.

Sounded mighty nervous when he yelped, “Ain’t afeard of you Ranger bastards. Don’t mean nothin’ to me. Kill your sorry asses as quick as any other man. Come on in here and git some, if’n you’ve got the
cojones.
”

Like a graveyard-haunting ghost, Boz had vanished into the thickets. I knew he’d be on Buster like ugly on an armadillo so fast the poor waddie wouldn’t know what happened. Tatum had all the most deadly qualities of a combination Comanche, rattlesnake, and panther once he got on a badman’s odiferous scent.

Figured it best to keep our quarry’s attention. Wanted to draw him back my direction when I said, “Not after you for killin’ men, Buster. You went and tried to cut that poor Goldie Starr’s head clean off in the Acre. Still call that murder here in Texas. Gotta take you back to Fort Worth. You’re gonna hang for that ’un.”

Sounded upset, red-faced, and slobbery when he hollered back, “Hell, she warn’t nothin’ more’n a dirty-legged whore, Ranger. Who cares ’bout dirty-legged whores? Probably done the world a favor when I kilt that diseased bitch.”

“Me and Boz Tatum care, Buster. State of Texas, Texas Rangers, and the good citizens of Fort Worth.”

“Horseshit. Cain’t believe anyone’d actually arrest and hang me for an act that borders on true community service. Way I’ve got it figured, a man should be on salary for such beneficial efforts on behalf of the public’s health and welfare.”

Sad to say it, but Buster’s brutal assessment of the demi-monde’s situation in the Acre amounted to a fairly accurate appraisal of how most of the drovers traveling north to the Kansas railheads felt on the subject. Abuse and death proved ever-present companions for those poor women desperate enough to enter a wickedly violent and degrading life. Facts of the time were undeniable that far too many of those who passed on unexpectedly went out by means similar to those credited to Caldwell. Sizable number died at the hand of some poor, drunken, south Texas cow chaser. Really sad way to live. And die.

Even worse, a good deal of the time, despondent unfortunates took their own lives—usually after years of mistreatment, alcoholism, opium addiction, and horrendously debilitating health problems. Sad and unpleasant to think on it, but none of that gave anyone the right to do what Buster’d done. I’ve always believed murder’s murder, no matter how you slice it. Last I heard, attempting to cut a woman’s head off still qualified.

And as Randall Bozworth Tatum always said, “Hanging is the perfect punishment for any man who’d abuse or viciously kill a woman. Got not one grain of sympathy for such animals. I’d ride a hundred miles to watch a woman killer drop through the trap and swing. Buy me an ear of flame-roasted corn on the cob and applaud when he hit the end of the rope and messed hisself. Yessir, as fine an afternoon’s entertainment as I could conjure up after a week of thinkin’ on the subject.”

Couldn’t have taken more’n a puff or three off my cigareet when I heard several quick shots and considerable pained screaming from Buster’s direction. Then Boz yelled out, “Come on in, Lucius. Done tamed this mad dog a bit. Don’t think he’s got any bite left.”

Hopped down the creek bank and slogged through knee-deep trash and snag-filled water to Caldwell’s muddy hidey-hole. With a still-smoking pistol in each hand, Boz stood over the poor stupid gomer and shook his head as I climbed up on a comfortable log and took a seat.

Wounded cowboy rolled around behind the dead tree in a deer wallow. Cowardly stink sprayer whimpered and cried like a little girl. With both hands, he clasped an oozing hole in his left side just above the waistband of his filthy trousers. Goodly amount of blood already saturated most of an equally nasty shirt’s tail, and some even soaked into his pistol belt.

“Aw, shut the hell up,” Boz snapped. “Big ole slug went in and came right out. Didn’t hit nuthin’ real important. If’n I’d of blasted through a piece of gut or somethin’, I could understand all this bawlin’ and carryin’ on. But Hell’s eternal fire, I didn’t do nothin’ ’cept punch a hole in that ’ere fleshy part just above your cartridge belt. Ain’t gettin’ no sympathy here. Whining skunks like you make me wanna heave up my spurs.” He holstered one pistol and set to reloading the other.

“Damn your back-shootin’ soul, it hurts like Hell’s own blazes,” Buster whimpered. “Look at this mess you went and done to me. I could, by God, bleed to death right here in this deer waller. Wound might well get all festerated. Might cause me to die from bad blood. Seen it happen out on the trail a number of times. Horrible way to go out—screamin’ and pukin’ and such. Jesus, help me. Sweet Jesus, come and help poor Buster.”

Boz grinned, holstered his reloaded pistol, and said, “Yeah, and you could get hit by lightning too, you woman-killin’ son of a bitch. Sizzle like a jackrabbit on a spit. And by the way, callin’ on the Deity ain’t gonna help you none, for certain sure. Only thing between you and eternity is me and Lucius Dodge.”

“You boys gotta get me to a doc. Gotta do it quicklike.” Caldwell whimpered like a kicked dog, sounded panicky, and looked like a man about to pass out. And, hell, then he did. Fluttering eyes rolled up in his head. He flopped over on his side like a beached catfish, and went to puking all over hell and yonder.

“We could run him to Salt Valley,” I said. “Ain’t but maybe twenty-five, thirty miles from here as the crow flies. Heard tell as how they’s a fair enough pill roller in residence over that way. Throw this sack of manure in a cell, and get him patched up. Leave ’im there till we feel like takin’ ’im back to Fort Worth.”

Boz stared down at Caldwell, crinkled his nose, and shook his head in disgust. “Wouldn’t hurt my feelings one bit if the worthless son of a bitch bled out right where he’s laying, Lucius. Muddy deer waller is a good ’nuff spot for his departure from this life, as far as I’m concerned. Be a better way and place to go out than he gave poor little Goldie Starr.” Hard to argue with such reasoning. Then again, we both knew we’d have to do something.

Continued to urge my partner in the right direction. He could be real hardheaded when he wanted. I said, “Don’t know about you, Boz, but I’d like to sleep in a bed for a night or two. We’ve been living on the ground so long I’m beginning to grow a crop of wildflowers between my toes. Know how much you love snoozin’ under an open sky, but I need a real bath, an actual meal cooked by someone other than you, and a bottle of giggle juice. We could rest up a few days, then drag ole Buster back to civilization for suitable trial and hanging.”

Took about five seconds, but Boz smiled and dropped his angry stance. He scratched a stubbly whisker-covered chin. “Well, could use a bath, shave, and I’m just as tired of my cooking as you are. Hell, let’s do ’er. We’ll put a travois together and drag his sorry little ass to Salt Valley.”

“You know the local law there, Boz?”

“Yeah. Town marshal’s an old friend. Name’s Caleb Oakley. Fine feller. Used to Ranger with me down on the border around Reynosa a few years back.”

“Well, let’s get at it. Put on some speed and we could be back to civilization in a couple of hours.”

Got Buster loaded onto a pole drag, and on our way in pretty short order. Brought his poor limpin’ buckskin cayuse along as well. Pulled into Salt Valley ’bout an hour or so past noon.

Bustling village had the typical appearance of most small Texas towns of the 1880s. Sliced by two or three lesser east-to-west avenues, a single north-to-south through street ran for about two hundred yards before petering out on the north end of town. Lined on either side by a variety of clapboard buildings. The village fathers had actually planted trees at precise intervals along the main thoroughfare. Town buzzed with farmers and ranchers, and was a more-than-welcome sight.

Stopped in front of the marshal’s office and jail. Boz said, “I’ll take care of this, Lucius. Why don’t you head on over to the Holy Moses Saloon and Restaurant yonder. Corner a table. Order us up a steak dinner and a bottle.”

Sounded like a fine plan to me. Nodded my agreement, and eased Grizz back across the main thoroughfare. Climbed down and tied him to the hitch rail out front of what appeared to be Salt Valley’s premier liquor-pouring and eating establishment. Heavy plate-glass window revealed a glistening bar and cloth-covered tables decorated with picked flowers and real silverware. Couldn’t help but shake my head in amused wonderment.

Used my hat to slap as much dust off myself as I could. Must have resembled a living dirt devil there for a spell. Grit swirled around as I tried to dance my way out of the grimy cloud.

Started for the combination saloon-restaurant’s batwing doors. Had my hand on top of one of them when thunderous gunfire, three or four doors down the boardwalk, got my attention. Commotion inside the Farmer’s and Rancher’s Bank sent folks out in the street scurrying in every direction. Women screamed. Horses nearest the action went into a panic.

’Bout the time I pulled my pistols, two fellers wearing bandannas over their faces busted through the bank’s fancy, carved-mahogany and glass double doors. Both men carried stuffed bags in one hand, pistols in the other, and headed for animals tied out front.

Thieves set to blazing away at anything they could see that moved. First thing they hit was a draft horse attached to a beer wagon. One of the wild-shooting bandits sent a skin-singeing slug across his haunches. Wounded beast let out a terrible shriek of pain and surprise. Animal bolted at breakneck speed and headed for parts unknown. Untethered beer barrels bounced out of the wagon’s bed and flew all over the street.

Ducked behind the saloon’s door frame. Tried to hide myself. Hadn’t been there more’n a second or so when, from the corner of my eye, I spotted a woman and a small child in the middle of the street. They’d been unfortunate enough to be dead center of the roadway when all the indiscriminate blasting started, and had nowhere to run. Woman hunkered down and wrapped herself around the youngster like a living blanket. Their deadly plight spurred me into unthinking action.

Jumped into the thoroughfare. Ran directly toward the robbers and a sizzling wall of pistol fire. Got myself planted between the distressed lady and the shooters. Stupid jack-asses couldn’t get themselves horsed. Their skittish animals, spooked by all the noise and violent activity, danced and twirled as the panicked robbers continued to blaze away. Bullets flew around me like angry Mexican hornets.

Paused, took careful aim, and snapped off a round that drilled the tallest of the two stickup artists dead center as he tried to climb aboard his animal. Got him right where he was biggest. Shot knocked the gunman back to the ground. Appeared to me he probably saw the bottoms of his own boots on the way down. One foot got jammed up in a stirrup. Frightened pony dragged his limp body away.

Downed man’s panic-stricken partner turned and thumbed off at least three rounds that zipped past my head and kicked up dirt near my feet. He exhausted one weapon, shoved it into a hip holster, then went for his belly gun.

I took a few more steps in the thief’s direction. Was about to unload on him from both smoke wagons when a third brigand jumped through the bank’s open doors. Ripped off a shot that knocked my hat into the air. Hot lead burned a deep crease just above my ear.

Of a sudden, most of the color went out of the world. Felt like I’d been hit in the head with a long-handled shovel. Grabbed at the bloody crease, went to my knees, and rolled onto my back. Both shooters had me in their sights by then. Hot slugs pounded the ground all around me while I rolled in the dirt. Remember thinking as how they’d have the range soon enough.