And Kill Them All (22 page)

All that yelping and moaning got me to thinking as to how the evil skunk might be right on the edge of passing on over to the other side. But to everyone's surprise he perked back up a bit. Appeared the man was holding on with his last fingernail. Guess he didn't want Satan to get a grip on his immortal soul for at least a few more minutes.

Surprised the bejabbers out of me, when, out of nowhere, Boz's hand snaked out. He delivered a rattling, openhanded, five-fingered rap across Atwood's unprotected cheek. Then he grabbed the man by the chin and said, “Don't you dare go and die on us. Swear if you die now, I'll drag you out into the middle of Del Rio's central thoroughfare and set your sorry ass ablaze.”

Bubbling, foamy slobber dribbled down Atwood's chin. A look of panicked despair creaked across the outlaw's face when he said, “You wouldn't do that. Tell me you wouldn't do that, Tatum.” Then he cast a horrified glance my direction and yelped, “You wouldn't let him do that, would you, Dodge? Would you?”

Appeared to me a serious case of loco was camped behind Boz's eyes when he said, “Don't matter what Dodge thinks. 'Cause I'll damn sure light you up if you don't get to talkin'. You don't give me something substantial, you're gonna burn like a cord of last winter's firewood. Get you flamin' up good while you're still here so the Devil won't have to waste so much effort when you land on his front porch.”

In a halfhearted attempt to reassure him, I patted the terrified man on the shoulder and said, “Get on with it. Sure 'nuff wouldn't want to watch you burn.”

“Who's this Webb feller? One you said gave Miss Clementine to Mad Dog Cutner,” Glo said.

Atwood groaned. Talon-like fingers squeezed the seeping chest wound. Sounded as though he was being strangled when he said, “He's the girl's uncle. There, you happy now?”

“Uncle?” The word popped out of all three of our mouths at the same time.

A self-satisfied, mischievous, almost childlike grin danced across the wounded brigand's quivering, blood-encrusted lips. “Yeah. Crazy, ain't it. The Honorable Nathan Hawthorn Webb's baby brother. Charles Axel Webb. All us ole boys from Huntsville who've been travelin' with the man of recent call 'im Ax.”

As if he'd been slapped, Boz recoiled and took half a step backward. “God save us. Ax Webb. Webb for cryin' out loud. We shoulda known. Shit. I just didn't make the connection. Did you, Lucius?”

“No,” I said. “Don't figure I ever would've, either. Just so far beyond the pale as to be nigh on impossible to fathom.”

“Why?” Glo said. “Why this man behind killin' his own kin? Turns my stomach just thinkin' on such a heinous crime.”

Though racked by waves of easily observable pain, Atwood let out a croupy, staccato laugh. Then he wiped another frothy pile of spittle from his twitching lips. He welded me to the floor with a cold-eyed stare and said, “Might remember as how ole Ax got sent to p-p-prison 'bout five years back for a number of daytime bank robberies he staged all over south Tejas. P-P-Prosecutors tried to nail him with a couple a killing's that took place durin' them particular raids as well. Didn't work. S-S-Still and all, jury sent him up the river for a hundred and f-f-fifty years.”

I nodded.

Atwood sucked in a wet, ragged breath, then wheezed, “Whilst rottin' in jail, Ax's younger brother managed to git his smart-alecky self elected to the Texas state senate. Ax felt as how Nathan shoulda done everything he c-c-could to get his elder siblin' outta that hellhole. Didn't happen. Hell, Nathan wouldn't even come for a visit. So, Ax got hisself out.”

“He escaped,” Boz near whispered.

“Yeah. Brought a bunch of us ole boys with him when he got loose. Hell, we was just sittin' 'round waitin' on the Devil to come take us to perdition. Ax Webb saved us. S-S-Said he had plans for his brother Nathan.” Atwood paused. Appeared to give considerable thought to what he was about to say next. “S-S-Sure as hell didn't think the man's plans would involve me b-b-bitin' the last bullet in this stinkin' Del Rio saloon.”

Atwood's eyes snapped closed. He gritted his yellow-stained, blood-covered teeth so hard it sounded like squirrels chewing into black walnuts. Grasping fingers clawed at the hole in his chest and twisted a tight knot into the front of his gore-soaked shirt.

“Don't you go and die on us yet,” Boz yelped, then grabbed the man by the shoulders and shook him like a rag doll. “Die on me now, by God, and I'll add ten more holes to the one Lucius put in your sorry hide. Then I'll set you on fire.”

A big, stupid grin spread over Atwood's pain-racked face as his eyes gradually crept open again. “Thought I 'uz a goner there for a second, T-T-Tatum,” he said. “ 'Pears as how you did, too.”

Boz pushed away. He backed off a step and pointed an accusatory finger in Atwood's face. He said, “Get on with your story, you belly-slinkin' snake. Go passin' out on us again and, by Godfrey, I'll have another go at you with my stick.”

A strange, creepy, mocking chuckle emanated from Atwood's hollow-sounding chest. “Huh-a huh-a huh-huhhuh. Time you get through doing ever-thang to me you've threatened, T-T-Tatum, you'll be so wore out you won't even be able to walk. H-H-Have to crawl on your hands and knees all the w-w-way back to your horse.”

“Don't worry 'bout me, dry-gulcher. Just keep on talkin',” Boz snapped.

“Well, like I 'uz a s-s-sayin' 'fore tryin' to d-d-die on you, we got shed of Huntsville. Managed to kill a guard or two in the process, though. Course 'at got every lawdog in south Texas a-chasin' us. Had to sneak, hide, and lay low for n-n-nigh on a m-m-month. Finally got ourselves armed up by b-b-breakin' into a hardware emporium up in Kerrville. Then we all headed for Uvalde. Figured we'd help Ax k-k-kill his sorry-assed brother there.”

“But somehow the brother figured out you boys were coming,” I said. “Man loaded up his family and skipped town.”

“Yeah. Did the jackrabbit thang on us. Went to runnin',” Atwood said, then groaned and wiped big beads of sweat off his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. “So, we set to c-chasin' 'im. Was easy, really. Man warn't much at hidin' his trail.”

Boz slapped the grip of his belly gun. “And you bastards caught up with him out on the Devils River not far from land we've been leasing, didn't you?”

Atwood let out a pitiful, raspy, blood-soaked whimper, then offered up a halfhearted nod. “Yeah. G-God help us. We shot that wagon, and them folks standing outside it, all to pieces.”

“What 'bout them chil'ren?” Glo said and toed at a spot on the rough board floor. “You know you'd gone and kilt all them chil'ren?”

The words had barely fallen from Glo's lips when the Broke Mill's batwing doors creaked open. A badge-wearing, red-faced, fat-gutted slug carrying a long-barreled shotgun eased to a point where he stood half in and half out of the doorway.

The saloon's wide-eyed drink wrangler, who'd earlier threatened us with a man-killing town marshal, peeked over one side of the saloon's battered, scroll-topped café doors and made wild pointing motions our direction. He said something to the lawman, who from all appearances might've eaten his own brother, that none of us could plainly hear.

Mr. Fat Gut cocked his head to one side. He listened intently to the yammering bartender for a second or so like an overfed cat mystified by the intricacies of higher mathematics. Finally, he turned away from the near hysteric bartender and said, “What the hell's a-goin' on here? What kinda mischief are you men about?”

Appearing irritated right down to the leather-poor soles of his run-down, well-worn boots, Boz cast a quick, squint-eyed, sneering glare toward the door. He yelled, “We're rangers, you squirrel-brained idiot. This is official ranger business. Best head on back to your office, Marshal. We don't need any of your help. Leave this matter to us. We'll take care of it.”

The noisy discussion at the door picked up again and got louder. Appeared Marshal Fat Gut wasn't having any luck dissuading the Broke Mill's angry drink pusher when it came to the slick-pated barkeep's heated complaining.

I lost interest in the pair of yammering morons in less than a barely felt heartbeat. My briefly diverted attention swung back to Atwood just in time to hear him gasp, “Didn't know t-t-them kids was in that wagon till after we'd b-blasted it to bits. Made me s-s-sick when I lit a lantern, looked inside, and seen them pitiful little bodies. Knew right then we 'uz on the short list for a ticket straight to a fiery Hell soon's somebody else come along and found all them dead folks. Just our k-k-kind a luck it'd be three man killers like you b-b-boys.”

The blistering argument between the Broke Mill's bug-eyed bartender and Del Rio's visibly reluctant town marshal kept getting louder. The blubbery lawman tried his best to move back out onto the boardwalk but the drink peddler wasn't having any of it. Right quick-like, angry swearing was coming from their direction and painted the air near the door a deep purple.

“Where would Cutner take the girl?” I asked.

Tanner Atwood squirmed in the growing pool of blood beneath his already saturated back. “J-Jus' head on out t-toward Uvalde. Ole Mad Dog keeps a rough c-cabin near the base of Turkey Mountain. Cain't miss the place. Stands out like a sore thumb. 'S sittin' right next to the only road goin' up to the t-top of that overgrown haystack.”

Boz pulled a ready-made ciga-reet from his shirt pocket, fired the smoke, then thumped the smoking match onto the floor. He picked the coffin nail from between his lips, and, with an air of suddenly discovered concern, placed it between Atwood's. The gasping man took a single drag on the smoldering tube of rolled tobacco, then motioned for Boz to take it back.

My partner recovered the ciga-reet, then said, “You figure there's anyone else sittin' up there on Turkey Mountain with him, Tanner?”

The rapidly fading outlaw puffed out an abbreviated lung of smoke, coughed, then said, “Have n-no way of knowin' that, T-Tatum. No one else there w-when we first picked him up after our escape from the pen. D-Do know this though. You don't get up there damned quick, Cutner's the kind of feller what'll use that little gal up like a man d-drivin' nails in a fence post to hang b-barbed wire on.”

Then, as God is my witness, like a drowning swimmer, Atwood suddenly sucked in one long, ragged breath. Man's entire body jerked as if a massive, unseen hand grabbed him by the buckle on his pistol belt and pulled up. He bowed up on blood-soaked shoulders and went as rigid as a length of steel railing. His eyelids fluttered in the manner of a broken window shade. Then, he made a series of odd grunting noises. He collapsed as Death stepped up, wrapped bony fingers around blood-filled lungs and heart, and squeezed all the man's remaining life out.

After near a minute, when the to-be-expected noises of dying finally stopped coming from the corpse, Glo said, “Think this 'un's done gone on to judgment, Mistuh Boz.”

Boz nodded and said, “Yeah. Think he's done went and shook hands with eternity, Glo. Satan oughta have his worthless hide in hand by now. Should be roastin' and toastin' over Hell's cook fires right quick-like.”

Pretty soon after that, we left the bodies where they fell and hoofed it for the street and our animals. The local marshal trailed up behind us soon's we hit the dusty, windblown street.

“Name's Isaac Goolsby, fellers. Marshal Isaac Goolsby,” he called out as he waddled along. “Reckon you fellers could slow down a second and talk some.”

We all nodded but kept on foggin' it.

Goolsby huffed and puffed like a hundred-year-old locomotive as he tried in vain to keep up. “Cain't just go and walk away from this kinda thang so easy, boys. Need some help from you so's I can explain these killin's should anyone come a-pokin' around these parts askin' questions.”

Three of us stopped beside our animals long enough to make sure everything was still in order for the run we were about to make to Turkey Mountain. Goolsby sidled up to a spot about ten feet away like he was afraid to get too close. Shotgun laid across one arm, he set to yelling out his endless stream of questions.

“What y'all 'spect me to do? Cain't jus' let you boys go and ride off 'thout explain' this mess. Ain't I got two bodies over yonder in the Broke Mill? Hell, that's two more'n we had all the rest of this year. What the hell am I s'posed to do with 'em ole boys?”

I pulled a square of paper and a stubby piece of pencil from my vest pocket, wrote Cap'n Culpepper's name on it, then mine, then Boz's. Strode over and handed it to the excitable gent.

“Got any problems, just send a letter to our captain care of general delivery in Fort Worth,” I said. “Got expenses, let him know. He'll take care of 'em. We'd like to talk this whole mess over with you some more, Marshal Goolsby, but we've got the life of a young woman hanging in the balance. Don't have time, at the moment, to discuss it with you.”

Boz threw a leg over his animal's back, wheeled the beast around and gazed down at Del Rio's obviously flusterated lawman. “ 'S enough you know that those two jokers in the Broke Mill were part of a murderous group of escaped killers that brutally murdered a Texas state senator and most of his family out on Devils River. Girl we're lookin' for is the only member of that same clan as is still living. We don't hurry, might not be able to save her.”

Got myself mounted, twirled my animal around beside Boz, and said, “Just do like I told you, Marshal. Cap'n Culpepper'll take care of any problems or questions you might have.”