Gun Work: The Further Exploits of Hayden Tilden (10 page)

Carl perked up and grinned. Sounded like a stalking cougar growling when he said, “Don't worry, Tilden, he'll talk to me and Nate. Won't take long, either.”

Nate offered up a toothy grin, then the four of us kind of muscled our way into the marshal's outer office like a herd of rogue Texas longhorns. Surly, weasel-faced, newly ordained clerk, sitting at a desk just inside the door, stopped beating on one of those mechanical writing machines long enough to get all bug-eyed behind a set of pince-nez spectacles that looked like the bottoms of sarsaparilla bottles.

Prissy-looking dude seemed a bit more than flustered, when he shuffled, stacked, restacked, and then whanged a thick pile of papers against the green pad covering his symbol of authority. Brass plate, mounted across a wedge-shaped piece of walnut, designated him as Mr. Harvey Crumb. Carlton would later opine that Crumb's nameplate should have included the title of “His Eminence,” or something along those lines.

Snatched his sissified glasses off and impatiently tapped them against the back of his hand. “And exactly what can I do for you gentlemen today,” Harvey Crumb snapped. Then, His Grand Pooh-Bah-ness glared at each of us individually, as though examining a group of outhouse cockroaches he just might swat with his weighty stack of important-looking documents.

Barnes started to growl at the pencil pusher, but I quickly placed a quieting hand on his thick-muscled arm, then said, “Mr. Crumb, we are here at the instructions and behest of Judge Parker's chief bailiff. According to George Wilton, you should have a man waiting for us to question in Marshal Dell's holding cell. Would be most appreciative if you could provide us with a key to the cell and escort us inside. If that wouldn't be too much trouble for you.”

Crumb slapped the sheaf of papers onto his desk, snatched a drawer open, and jerked out a large brass ring that sported a number of different-sized keys. He evil-eyed all of us again. Might as well have shouted that we'd inconvenienced the hell out of him. Officious goober said, “The jailers just brought your man up from the central lockup downstairs. He smells like a dead skunk dipped in a tub of week-old horse urine. Want you to know I had no warning of this meeting prior to his arrival and am not at all happy about the inconvenience. Plan to take this up with Marshal Dell when he returns, by Godfrey.”

Then, the prissy scamp hopped up like his narrow butt was on fire. He pranced over to the door to the marshal's private office and flung it open. Stepped to one side and majestically waved us in.

Interior of the U.S. marshal's official, personal headquarters proved quite spacious. As most of my assignments came directly from George Wilton or Judge Parker, I rarely had any reason to visit with Marshal Dell. Was always surprised at the enormity of his private workspace and, except for the two glaringly out-of-place cells against the easternmost wall, its impressive sumptuousness.

The single room encompassed an oblong space that ran along a sizable portion of the entire front wall of the courthouse. Perhaps twelve by twenty feet, the room was furnished in dark, heavy furniture and thick, colorful, Persian carpets. A highly polished mahogany conference table, fully capable of seating eight or ten people, sat but a few feet outside the heavily barred, abbreviated lockup against the wall to our right. A set of thick curtains, used to hide the tiny prison when it was not in use, and that appeared to match the carpet, had been pushed to one side thereby exposing the object of our interest.

Red-faced, Crumb marched to the only occupied chamber of the pair, slammed a key into the ironbound slot, and jerked the door open. “Get up,” he yelped. “You have important visitors.”

A man, of perhaps twenty years, rolled off his straw-filled cot with his back to us. He stretched like a lazy cat, turned, and flashed us a huge, welcoming smile. “Why, hello, boys. So glad y'all could come by.”

He took a couple of steps, then reached up and hooked his fingers over the open jail cell door's iron frame. Man absolutely oozed an aura of contemptible confidence. “Anybody bring a bottle with 'em,” he grunted. “Ain't had a got damned thing to drink since this big oaf snatched me up and dragged me back to civilization. Gettin' mighty by-God dry,” he said and grinned again.

Barnes Reed reached out, grabbed Benny Coltrane by the shirtfront, snatched him off his feet, then dragged him to the conference table. Lifted the man up like a corn-shuck doll and stuffed him into an empty chair. Got right up in the accused killer's face and snarled, “This here's Deputy U.S. Marshal Hayden Tilden, Coltrane. He's got some questions for you. Best pay attention.”

Benny swept the three of us with a wide, insincere, self-important smile, then said, “Why, I live to serve, Deputy Marshal Reed. Hell, you know that. Us Coltrane boys are always ready to offer aid to any of the bold men who wear a badge for Hangin' Judge Isaac Parker. Should help the law all you can. That's what my dear, departed ole pappy used to say.”

Barnes shook his head in disgust. Barely able to control his temper, he glared at Coltrane like he wanted to rip the man's empty head off and stuff it down his blood-gushing neck. Still fuming like a burning bank building, Barnes backed away and took a position leaned up against the edge of Marshal Dell's fancy, mahogany desk. Would've sworn I could see red under the dusky skin covering his face and hands. Man stared steely daggers into ole Benny's back.

As Carl, Nate, and I surrounded the bigheaded bandit and possible child murderer, I said, “You and your brothers have been right busy, haven't you, Benny?”

Coltrane studied his twiddling thumbs for a second, arched an eyebrow, glanced up, and flashed that wide, crooked, sneering grin again. “Well, must admit I do come from a long line of hardworking, industrious folks, and that's a pure fact. Coltrane family's always prospered, no matter the economic condition of our surroundings. Yessir, we're a hardworkin' buncha model citizens.”

As though completely unconcerned with the proceedings, Carl pulled a folding knife from his pants pocket. Started digging at his fingernails with the tip of the biggest blade. Didn't bother to look at Coltrane, when he came near whispering, “Hear tell as how you
hardworking, industrious
Coltrane boys went and kilt a drummer name of Cushman. God-fearin', upstandin' citizen of Kansas. Never done a soul any harm. That right, Benny, my boy?”

Coltrane's haughty smile bled away and was quickly replaced with a teeth-baring sneer. “Yammerin' at the wrong man,
deppidy
. Might as well be talkin' to this here table, 'cause I don't know nothin' 'bout no dead book peddlers.”

Big, toothy grin popped out on Nate Swords's face. Knew exactly what he was about to say. My friend leaned back and slapped the protruding grip on one of his pistols. Kinda chuckled, then said, “Nobody mentioned a single thing 'bout the man bein' a book peddler, you loose-mouthed son of a bitch. Just how'n the blue-eyed hell did you know the dead feller made his living selling books?”

Coltrane's eyebrows pinched together, as he squirmed in his seat. Then, swear 'fore Jesus, he rammed a finger up his nose to the second knuckle. Picked around inside like he was mining for gold somewhere up near the top of his skull. Self-importantly examined his discovery for a second. Grinned when he flicked the snotty booger Carl's direction. My red-faced friend hopped aside.

No doubt in my mind that things were about to take a decidedly weird detour, when Carl shot a glare at Coltrane that could've easily blistered paint off a Pennsylvania barn.

“Seems I did hear somethin' about that particular killin'. Can't remember exactly what, though,” Coltrane offered. He flipped the same finger in the general direction of Barnes. “Hell, big son of a bitch yonder's already run me through the mill over that drummer once. Don't know nothin'. Cain't tell you ignorant sons a bitches what I don't know, now can I?”

“Doesn't matter,” Carl growled. “We'll let Judge Parker, and a jury of your peers, decide your fate over that one. But, we are interested in what you can tell us about the Cassidy girl.”

Damned near imperceptible, but Benny's shoulders slumped a mite. He twisted lower into the chair, as though trying to corkscrew himself away from a perceived threat. Went to scratching and squirming like the kid who'd been caught doing something that he shouldn't have been doing.

Scratched his chin as though in deep, concentrated thought. “Cassidy girl?” Benny said. “You boys 'er wastin' all our time, by God. Don't have no idea what you're talkin' 'bout,
deppidy
.”

Take it from me when I tell you, the man had a way of spitting the word
deputy
out like he was trying to knock a yellow jacket out of the air with a gob of spitty phlegm the size of a shotgun shell.

Nate threw his head back and let out a derisive chuckle. Said, “You just don't know anything about anything, do you? But I'd bet you're fully aware that you're workin' on makin' all us lawmen believe, beyond any doubt, that you'd have to go back to school and study up to be a half-witted idiot.”

Our prisoner humped up and went to yammering at Nate like an angry tomcat. Snapped, “Truth be known,
deppidy,
Benny Coltrane don't personally give a royal pile of runny shit what you do-right sons a bitches think about a single by-God thing.”

Quicker than field corn going through a fat goose, Carl's hand flicked out. Like a striking rattlesnake, he smacked Coltrane across the lips so hard, just seeing the lick made my teeth hurt. Blow was what Carl would have laughingly referred to as a “love tap.” But the resounding smack for damned sure got ole Benny's attention.

To say Coltrane was a bit surprised would've been the understatement of the decade. Looked to me like our question-and-answer session was well on the way to getting about as serious as a brain killer of a stroke.

BENNY COLTRANE SLUMPED deeper into the Moroccan leather of his chair and rubbed the fresh weal that glowed on his cheek. He followed that bit of business up with a somewhat less-than-enthusiastic glance of feigned defiance around the room. In spite of his seeming insolence, I detected a definite, although well-concealed, crack in his disrespectful attitude.

“Where's the girl, Benny?” Carl said, then flashed a friendly grin.

Coltrane reared back in the chair, as far from Carl as he could get, then yelped, “Got no right to go a-hittin' on me like that, goddammit. Jus', by God, cain't be treatin' a feller like that.”

One-handed, Carlton snapped the barlow closed, dropped it back into his pants pocket, then leaned over in Benny's face. Hissed, “You don't tell us somethin' 'bout the location of Miss Daisy Cassidy that's useful, and mighty damned quick, I'm gonna beat the unmerciful dog crap outta you, ole son. Get through with your sorry, back-shootin' ass won't be enough of you left to run through my granny's flour sifter.”

White-knuckled, Coltrane clasped both padded arms of the chair with talonlike fingers. Shot a hot-eyed, inquiring glance my direction. “You gonna let this vicious, redheaded son of a bitch beat on me like he says, Mr. Tilden? Hell, I done heard as how you're a dangerous man in a gunfight, but a fair one once a man's caught. Never suspected a famed lawdog like you for such barbaric behavior.”

In the manner of a starving wildcat, Nate took Carl's lead. Jumped at Coltrane, pushed Carl aside, and seized the slippery snake by the collar and shook him. “Sweet Jesus, where'd you learn a three-dollar word like
barbaric
, Benny?
Barbaric
for the love of Jesus. I personally wouldn't have bet a single, thin, Yankee dime on whether you'd ever even heard such a word. Sure as hell wouldn't have ever been made to believe that half a haircut like you would know what it meant.”

Prisoner slapped at Nate's hand, then twisted out of his grasp. “Yer all crazier'n a pack of shithouse rats,” he yelped. “Ain't never had no lawmen go'n treat me like this, by God.”

“Like what?” a grinning Barnes Reed called out from behind Benny. “Ain't got a mark on you yet, you evil little sack of rat crap. But there's the very real possibility that when we let you outta here today, you could very well hobble back to the general-population cells, down in the basement, in a lot worse condition than you came out.”

Stricken by the sudden, and very physical, turn of events, a once self-assured, overly confident Benny Coltrane twirled in the chair so he could see Barnes. Instant rash of beaded sweat poured off his forehead, when he whined, “What in the hell's that mean, Reed? That a threat? You threatenin' me with some kinda beating just short of death-dealin' violence? Might have to complain to the . . .”

“Complain? Complain to who, you ignert bag of horse dung,” Carl yelped. Then, he grabbed the arms of the chair and jerked the now-quaking Benny Coltrane back our direction. “What my friend Deputy Reed is implyin' is that we just might be forced to each take a volume of them law books outta that shelf yonder, open 'er up, and beat you silly with it. Paper won't leave a mark on you. But you'll be limpin' like a peg-legged Civil War veteran and pissin' blood for a month when we get done.”

Gaze darting around the room, Coltrane had the look of a cornered rat when he said, “You wouldn't do that. Ain't no way you'd do that.”

Carlton smiled. “Tilden won't. Reed might not. But me'n Swords will. And trust me, ole son, you'll tell us every secret thing you've ever tried to hide from anybody. Hell, you'll even admit to the time you first peered down the cotton pantalets of little Mary Damp Britches, and commented on how what you saw looked like she'd been hit with a hatchet.”