Gun Work: The Further Exploits of Hayden Tilden (2 page)

“Well as can be expected, I suppose, Junior. 'Course when you get to be nigh on ten years older than Methuselah, it's hard to tell most of the time.”

“Have any particular aches, pains, or complaints?”

“Not really. Just the general everyday, run-of-the-mill ninety-year-old-guy stuff. Lack of serious female companionship, good drinking whiskey, and a decent smoke tend to make me dull-witted. The companionship's the one that weighs on me the most.”

“Can't help you with a woman. Although it does appear to me that you hardly lack for company in that area.”

“Well, all these cute little nurses and candy stripers are okay, but ain't exactly what you'd call
serious
when it comes to the real, low-down, man-woman thing.”

Ignored his shaded inferences and offered him the loot. “Please take these by way of apology for my failings when it comes to supplying you with
serious
female companionship. Make sure they're properly stored away from Chief Nurse Leona Wildbank's prying, officious eyes. Sure she'll joyfully confiscate the entire boodle if you don't get it all stashed in your secret places as soon as possible.”

“Well, by God, Junior. That's mighty nice of you. Gold-label rye whiskey and cee-gars. Damn right, I'll take them. You keep an eye down the hall for marauding nurses whilst I hide these puppies on my person till I can make it back to my room.”

“Well, get to hiding. Right now the coast is pretty much clear. Don't see anyone coming our way.”

“Stuff it all inside my shirt and pants pockets. Squirrel everything away, in my most confidential spots, later tonight. Wouldn't do to go running down to my room right now. Inquisitive little gals get right suspicious when one of the inmates goes and does anything out of the ordinary, like getting in a hurry, you know. Really do appreciate this, Junior.”

“You're quite welcome. Figured you might regale me with another of your stories by way of reciprocation.”

“Oh, hell, yes. That's easy enough. Pretty cheap payment for this kind of booty. Be more than happy to oblige.”

“Want you to think about something while you're working to stash all that loot.”

“Go on ahead, but keep your eyes peeled. Don't want to go and let any of the nurses catch us. Sure would hate to have all this fine stuff you brought confiscated before I can at least enjoy some of it.”

“Was wondering, Hayden. Have you ever found yourself involved in a difficult and deadly situation that caused you to think you just might not survive?”

“Whiskey bottle's not sticking out of my shirt is it, Junior?”

“No, sir.”

“See any of them cigars I shoved into my pants pockets?”

“No, sir. Think you're safe. Nothing showing that I can detect. You just look a mite lumpy's all.”

“Well, lumpy's okay. Damn near all us ninety-year-olds look kind of lumpy somewhere. Old-age curse, you know. Really do appreciate you thinking of me, son. Hell, you're just about the only person left in the entire world as makes such efforts on my behalf and, by Godfrey, I'm genuinely grateful for it.”

“Assure you, old friend, it's my great pleasure.”

“Uh, now, what was the question again? Brain's still a bit foggy from my recent nap. Your query's already slipped away from me.” He leaned over, winked, and gave me a conspiratorial pat on the knee. “Soon as I get some of this rye in me though, bet I'll be thinking a whole bunch better.”

“Difficult and deadly situation. Thought you might not survive. That kind of stuff. Remember?”

“Ah. Yeah. Well, let's see. Involved in a damned bunch of them kind of circumstances over the years, don't you know. More than one of them just like you described. Some downright awful.”

“I'd like to know about the fear factor as well, if you're willing to talk about it, that is.”

“Ah, the fear factor. Well, see, anytime somebody gets to shooting at you there's always a chance you might not survive. Chance for an accident tended to prove right worrisome for me. Been my experience that there's more dead men in the ground what got killed by pure accident than there are them what died by a well-aimed, deliberately placed two-hundred-fifty-five-grain pistol bullet, delivered from the business end of a Colt's pistol.”

“Uh-huh. I see. But that doesn't exactly answer my question about fear.”

“Hmmmm. Yeah, fear. Being afraid. Well, gotta understand, there's a hell of a difference between coming to the heart-thumping realization that the outcome of a blistering confrontation involving gunfire might not go well and heart-pounding, piss-your-pants, bug-eyed fear.”

“Okay. Let me see if I can be a bit clearer. Might work better for you if I put it this way. Have you, personally, ever feared for your own safety during the course of a gunfight?”

“Hmm. Not as I can recall at the moment. But, like I said, anytime the fur started to fly, always knew there was a chance I might not walk away from the scrap without a new leak or two here and there.”

“Must admit I've cheated a bit on you, Hayden. Some recent research at the courthouse in Fort Smith indicates that you and Deputy Marshal Carlton J. Cecil took part in a somewhat infamous gun battle down at Wagon Wheel in the Nations. That right?”

“Uh-huh. Yeah. That was a bad one all right. Hadn't thought much about that particular dustup in a spell. Seems as how a man does tend to forget them bloody scrapes that he survives. Feller never forgets the ones where he gets hit though. Getting shot does hone a feller's memory to a right sharp point.”

“Remember enough about the Wagon Wheel fight so that you can you tell me about it?”

“Suppose so. Sure. Just give me a second or two while I work on collecting my scattered thoughts.”

Tilden stared into the distance. Appeared almost as though he fell into a trance. After about a minute, the old man seemed to relax from head to toe. No more than ten seconds later he turned, locked me in one of his squint-eyed, thousand-yard stares, and started the tale.

“See, me and Carlton J. Cecil were on our way back to Fort Smith. Herding half a dozen prisoners at the time. If my cankered memory still serves, had a child rapist, pair of whiskey-peddling sons of bitches, feller who murdered his parents over two dollars and an apple pie, guy we caught trying to pass some of the worst counterfeit money I've ever seen, and a doubled-up evil skunk named Potsy Tally.”

“Tally the worst of them?”

“Oh, yeah. Worst by far. In that bunch anyway. See, he had three brothers that made him look like a Baptist Sunday school teacher's grandmother.”

“The brothers known for violent behavior?”

“Well, if cutting a feller's head and private parts clean off with a dull handsaw qualifies as violent behavior, guess you could say as how them boys could have easily been certified as a pretty vicious bunch. 'Course when they went and beat the same man's brains out with the pointy end of a claw hammer, well, that's the part that kind of sealed their reputations with me.”

“Jesus. They sawed a man's privates off with a handsaw? Beat his head in with a claw hammer? Makes me squirm all over just thinking about such a horror.”

“Ain't that the truth. But let's be sure and get it straight. Didn't say they beat his head in. Said they beat his brains out. There's a hell of a difference.”

“Yes. Suppose you're right. Got any idea why they did it?”

“Said as how they didn't like him.”

“Didn't like him? That was it?”

“Seemed like enough for them boys. Maybe if they'd of liked him just a little bit more, would of only sawed his nuts off.”

“Jesus. Look, as I understand the situation, you arrived in Wagon Wheel while searching for the Tally boys. And then what happened?”

“Well, let me see, now. Right nice little town, as I recall. Primitive, but nice enough for that part of the Nations. 'Bout forty miles southwest of Tishomingo. Heart of the Chickasaws' territory. Bad men liked the area. Really rugged. Damned rough, I guess you could say. Anyway, had our prisoners headed for Tishomingo so we could lock 'em up in the jail them Chickasaws built into their brand-new, solid-brick courthouse. Figured on letting some of those Chickasaw light-horse lawmen watch our pack of skunks whilst me and Carl took a break. Once we'd rested up, planned to point our band north, then head on out to Fort Smith.”

“What, in particular, drew you to Wagon Wheel? You could've stopped just about anywhere else along the way.”

“True, but me and Carl both had an axle dragging. We'd chased Potsy Tally for so long, once we finally caught up with the low-life piece of seeping scum, the pursuit had pert near wore us both slap out. Remember Carlton saying as how his dauber was a dragging in the dirt.”

“You were tired and the town of Wagon Wheel proved the nearest place to rest up.”

“Ain't easy chasing skunks like Potsy while you're toting five other stripe-backed stink sprayers around, too. Remember Carlton saying he felt like he'd just pumped a railroader's hand car all the way to Yuma, Arizona. Besides, it's tougher than eating boiled boot heels when you're trying to control six men that know they're gonna hang by the neck until dead, dead, dead, soon as they get back to civilization. Threats and violence tend to be the order of the day.”

“Carlton complained a lot.”

“Yes, he did.”

“According to you, that is.”

“How else?”

“As I understand it, during that period in the Nations, towns like Wagon Wheel rarely had a jail. What'd you do with the prisoners once you arrived?”

“Carl chained the whole bunch of them to a big ole cottonwood tree right in the middle of the puny town's central square.”

“All of them? All six?”

“Well, all of them except Tally. That man couldn't get along with anybody. Just look him in the eye, and he'd jump on you like ugly on an armadillo. Didn't take much to figure as how he'd end up stringing barbed wire in Hell, sooner or later. Son of a bitch fought with the other prisoners so much we decided to split him out from the rest of them.”

“So, what'd you do with him?”

“Who?”

“Tally. Remember. You said you didn't chain him to the tree.”

“Oh, yeah, well, Carlton shackled his sorry behind to the hitch rack in the street outside a café. Nice joint. Checkered curtains on the windows. Remember as how the joint had a sign over the door proclaimed it as EARLINE'S CAFÉ. Ain't that amazing? Had forgot the name of the place till just now.”

“Glad it came to you when it did.”

“Yeah. And that Earline was a good-looking woman. Being as how that was a year or two before either of us would've got ourselves hitched, me and Carl both took special note of the lady while sitting at the table next to the front window.”

“You were seated near the café's front window?”

“Uh-huh. Don't want to hear 'bout Earline?”

“Not right now.”

“I see. Yeah, sitting by the window. Needed a spot where we could watch our prisoners. Given the least chance, them sneaky sons a bitches could get away from you quicker than a body could spit.”

“Really?”

“Oh, hell, yeah. Caught an ole boy named Hollis Whiteside over in the Sans Bois Mountains once. Bigger than a skint moose. Slipped his manacles. Jumped me and Carl in the middle of the night on our trip back to Fort Smith. Happened about ten or fifteen miles outside Eufala in the Creek Nation.”

“Did he run?”

“Run? Hell, no. Told you. He went and jumped us. Beat the unmerciful bejabbers out of both of us. Was well on the way to killing the pair of us. Had a choke hold on me. Had a foot in the middle of Carl's chest. But then, about the time I was ready to pass over to Glory, a God-sent miracle occurred.”

“A miracle? A real, honest-to-goodness miracle?”

“Yeah. See, somehow, that little redheaded scamp Carlton managed to get a bone-gripped bowie knife of his loose from one of his boots. Ran eight inches of Damascus steel all the way through the foot that Whiteside wasn't using to try and push Carl's breastbone through his spine and into the ground beneath.”

“Sweet Mary.”

“Yeah. Was kind of funny though. Once Carl was able to poke through Hollis's foot, oversized bastard yelped like a stomped-on tomcat. Grabbed at the knife's hilt, went to hoppin' 'round like one of them whirling dervishes. Clumsy son of a bitch fell down right in the middle of our campfire. Rolled back and forth in the flames like some kind of complete idiot. Sparks went to flying ever which a-way. His clothes went to blazing. Watched in pure, dumbfounded amazement. Got to thinking as how, maybe, he was trying to cook his stupid self, or something. That's when Carl shot him.”

“Shot him?”

“Four times.”

“Four times?”

“You know, said the exact same thing myself. Said, ‘Damn, Carl, did you have to shoot the ignorant bastard four times?' Carl was reloading when he said, ‘Damn right. Wanted to make sure the big son of a bitch was good and dead. Might shoot him again, just for the hell of it, by God.'”

“Let's get back to the men you had chained to the tree and hitch rail in Wagon Wheel.”

“Oh, yeah. Well, we weren't torturing them or anything like that, Junior. As a matter of pure fact, first thing we did was make arrangements for all those boys to get something to eat. And that was before we even bothered with our own hunger. Soon as they got served, that's when we strolled on into Earline's and ordered up some grub for ourselves. So hungry we finished off a damned fine feed in record time.”