Gun Work: The Further Exploits of Hayden Tilden (23 page)

“Yeah.” He took a long, gurgling breath to steady himself, then added, “Seems the boy, M-M-Matt, wanted to scoot on back to the Nations. But that gal, that D-D-Daisy Cassidy, she told her little brother they had to get on down to Turnbow's w-w-wagon yard, find some horses, and hoof it on to Morgan's Cut, quick as they could.”

“Morgan's Cut?”

“Y-Y-Yeah. Out on the Brazos. Half-assed, jerkwater wide space in the Abilene stage road. 'Bout forty miles west of Fort Worth. Not much there. Only one saloon. And it's a damned disreputable joint where the dregs of humanity hang out. Couple a stores, if they're still up and r-r-running. Cross-roads meetin' place for the low, and them as are goin' lower, more'n anythang else.”

“Why the hell would she say something like that?” Carlton wondered. “Better yet, how'd she even know about a spot like Morgan's Cut?”

Dillworthy moaned, wagged his head back and forth like a sick dog. Thought sure he'd said all he could. But then, between hisses and slobbers, he added, “Heard her say as how they had to get their hands on some horses. Hit the trail 'fore anybody f-f-found out what they'd gone and done. Needed to get there . . . quick as they could . . . meet up with somebody . . . name of Coltrane.”

“You're certain that's what you heard? No doubt in your mind?” I said.

Dillworthy's eyes rolled up in his head. Violent jerks racked his body several times. One shudder hit him so hard felt sure he might go and fall right out of the chair. Thought for a second or two he would pass out again, or get called to the great beyond before he could finish telling us what we needed to know.

Several seconds of ragged breathing and more moaning passed before the cruelly stabbed man gasped as though strangled, then hissed, “Certain as a man with n-n-nigh on five inches of sharpened steel stickin' outta his chest can be, Marshal.”

Nate looked incredulous when he said, “You heard 'em talking? You actually thought you were dead and still heard 'em talkin'? That what you're sayin', Dill?”

Dillworthy blinked fifteen or twenty times real quick, like he'd lost control of his eyelids and couldn't stop them flapping. Looked some confused, lost, but said, “Yeah. They 'uz only . . . a few feet away. Heard everthang. Swear 'fore Jesus . . . swear it.”

Nate held a hand up as though to slow the conversation. “Okay. Okay. Don't get your balbriggans all knotted up.”

More than a bit wild-eyed by then, Dillowrthy snapped, “Even heard what all my . . . g-g-good friends and b-b-boon companions said . . . later when they finally showed up.”

Man closest to Dillworthy let out an audible gasp, then stared at the hallway floor.

“Yeah. Y'all 'uz millin' around and talkin' 'bout how I 'uz crow bait. How I'd done gone . . . and sh-sh-shook hands with eternity and all. G-G-Give up the ghost. Quit this earth. Deader'n Hell in a Baptist preacher's . . . b-b-backyard. Whole time . . . I 'uz just screamin' like a son of a bitch inside. Nobody could hear me. God Almighty, nobody could h-h-hear me. It were awful.”

Didn't have the slightest idea what to say to that. So I got to my feet and turned to Evans. “Have any idea how long ago this all took place, Bob?”

Evans ran one hand up under his hat and scratched. “Oh, couldna been much more'n half an hour, Marshal Tilden. Little longer, maybe.” He pointed a shaking finger at Higgins. “I sent poor ole Boo, there, up to spell Hardy Forrest—maybe forty-five minutes ago. Had another man who 'uz supposed to relieve Dill, but he didn't show on time. He come up late and found both of 'em all butchered up like this. Damn near scared him slap to death. Wouldn't even come back up here with us. Still down at the office blubberin' like some kinda escaped loony, I suppose.”

“God Almighty,” Carlton said. “You mean this poor son of a bitch might've been sittin' here for near half an hour, or more, the way we found him? With that big ole knife juttin' outta his chest and all?”

Evans knuckled a stubble-covered chin, shrugged, then nodded. “Sure as the devil's an awful thought, ain't it? But, yeah. Guess that's the way of it.”

Carlton shook his head, then toed at the carpet beneath his feet and stared at the floor. “Damn. Thought I'd seen some strange stuff over the years we've traveled together, Tilden, but this here takes the by-God cake. Woulda swore that man was stone-cold dead when we walked up.”

Dillworthy coughed. Spotty stream of spittle and blood trickled out of the corner of his mouth and onto an already gore-covered shirtfront. “Ain't n-n-none of you boys any more surprised that I'm alive th-th-than me,” he said, flashed a weak grin, then coughed again.

Nate rubbed the back of his neck. Shook his head, then said, “Oh, I dunno. Couple years ago heard tell of a feller what got hisself shot up through and through the chest, was over in Okmulgee. Everbody what looked him over declared as how the poor fool was deader'n a pitchfork handle.”

“His name was Reggie Crawford,” Carlton offered.

“Yeah, Reggie Crawford,” Nate said. “Talked with folks from around those parts who claimed as how they listened for a heartbeat, felt for a pulse, even held mirrors up to his toothless mouth. Nothin'. Middle of July at the time. So, they went and put 'im on top a slab of ice in the nearest icehouse. Covered the poor feller head to foot with a layer of straw and horse blankets. He laid there for nigh on two days.”

“Think I remember hearin' 'bout this one myself,” I said.

“Most probably you did, Tilden. It's a well-traveled tale,” Nate continued. “Anyhow, way I heard it told, the poor joker come conscious in the dark. Colder'n Hell with the fires doused. Sat up and went to screaming like a lunch whistle at a sawmill. Scared the bejabberous hell outta people outside what heard 'im. Even so, somebody finally got up nerve enough to open the icehouse door. They got him out. Warmed him up, patched him up, and last I heard, he's still alive and kickin' to this very day.”

“Yeah,” Carlton said, “that's all well and good, but can testify from personal knowledge, if you put the poor goober's scrambled-up brain in a horned toad, it'd jump around in circles, backward.”

About then, a short, dark, intense-looking gent wearing a threadbare, pin-striped, three-piece suit, white shirt, short-brimmed hat, and carrying a black leather bag pushed through the crowd and muscled his way up to the scene. Snatched his pince-nez glasses off, got in Bob Evans's face, and said, “Need to move some of these people the hell and gone out of here, Bob. Sweet merciful father. No way I could possibly help anyone with all these gawking ignoramuses clogging everything up from here to halfway down to the street. Go on, Bob, get them the hell out of my way.”

Evans tipped his hat. Said, “Sure 'nuff, Doc. I'll move 'em on down to the other end of the hall. Maybe then you'll have enough room to work and can keep ole Dill from pass-i n' on.”

I figured as how our presence was no longer needed. So, we scurried back to our room. Got ourselves fully dressed, then hoofed it downstairs. Stood around in the El Paso Hotel's bar for another thirty minutes or so. Had a stiff drink while we waited.

Well, it surprised the hell out of everybody in the place when the doc came down leading Dillworthy by the hand like a small child. Personally must admit, I found it unimaginable that the poor, stabbed-up joker was still alive and could walk at all. The doc had him bandaged from neck to waist, like one of those Egyptian mummies in a traveling carnival you could see back in them days for a nickel. Dillworthy did stumble some now and again, as though he just might not make it to the hotel's front entrance.

Entire troop of Fort Worth's grim-faced police force followed along behind. Narrow stairway made it some difficult, as they lugged the hatchet-brained corpse of Boo Higgins down all wrapped up in a bedsheet. Creeping bloodstain on the upper end of the sheet made it right obvious that his demolished skull was still leaking right smart, though. Saw several people in the hotel lobby cover their faces with a kerchief and turn away. Can't say as I blamed them much. Was right gruesome.

Carlton leaned against the hotel's bar, took a sip from his drink, then under his breath, said, “Gets home to you right quick when a fellow lawman bites the dust, don't it? Bet every one of Marshal Sam Farmer's boys is silently thanking whatever god he prays to that he wasn't sittin' where Boo Higgins was earlier this evenin'. Know for sure I'm gladder'n hell it weren't me.”

Half finished drinks in hand, we trailed Fort Worth's party of hurting lawmen out into Third Street. Stood beneath the hotel's veranda and watched as they disappeared up the sparsely peopled thoroughfare and slowly bled into the receding darkness.

Smoldering, square-cut cheroot, that looked like a rotten tree root, dangled from Nate's lips when he said, “We gonna follow along with 'em to the city jail, Hayden?”

“Nope. We've got other, far more important fish to fry, Nate.”

Carlton slapped the grip of his belly gun, said, “Best get ourselves on down to Fletcher Turnbow's place, Hayden. If that old man's still alive, it's sure 'nuff gonna surprise the hell outta me.”

Can't imagine why, but such a thought hadn't so much as crossed my mind. Of a sudden, though, I felt the urgent need for the three of us to get down to the wagon yard quick as we could heel it. Sat our empty glassware on the edge of the hotel's boardwalk and struck out for Turnbow's outfit like a trio of scalded dogs.

Along the way I said a silent prayer for the old man's safe deliverance from an evil he could not have imagined.

FOUND FLETCHER TURNBOW all balled up in a knot. Laid out in the corner of one of his horse stalls. Blood spattered all over hell and yonder.

“Good Lord, looks like somebody hit the old man in the head with a hay sickle,” Carlton said through a tight-lipped grimace.

Nate reached into the stall's feed box and brought out an ax handle decorated on one end with a gob of hair and blood. Held it up. “Nope. Be willing to testify as how they used this right here on the old feller, Carl.”

Dragged Turnbow out into the centermost open area of his barn. Hit him with a splash of cold water from a pail Carl found. He woke up and started coming back to life. Struggled and fought with us, at first. Old coot fisted Carlton in the eye before we could get him calmed down. 'Course we knew Fletch didn't mean to do it, but Carl yelped like a kicked dog anyhow. Did his very own share of swearing. Danced around the barn, one hand cupped over a split brow.

Second or so after he popped Carl, Turnbow hopped up on wobbly legs. Codger was so bowlegged he couldn't have caught a pig in a water trough. Fists out like a sparring, bareknuckled prizefighter, he went to bouncing around on those saddle-warped legs of his. Cussed a blue streak that could have peeled red paint off a New Hampshire barn. His muddle-headed, anger-laced profanity made that musty barn's air crackle and smell like sulfur.

Bug-eyed, slobbers dribbled down the geezer's stubble-covered chin, when he screeched, “Kick your collective asses, by God. Yessir, sure as hell will. Want some? Come on and git some. Whip the whole damned bunch of yuh like a pack of yard dogs. Run all of yuh back under the porch, by God.”

Took considerable doing, but we finally got Fort Worth's premier hostler calmed down a bit. Had to spend almost five minutes talking to him like he'd reverted back to early childhood and needed his diaper changed.

Tried to clean him up with a piece of rag and some water, while he sat on an empty, wooden nail keg and tongue-lashed the entire seen and unseeable world. Think he had just about wore out every method of blasphemy privy to God and mankind when he said, “Swear to Christ, Marshal Tilden, a body cain't trust a solitary soul these days. World's goin' straight to a festerin' hell on an outhouse door, you ask me. Can't even trust a good-lookin' woman or little kids anymore. Never can tell when one of 'em might go an' jump up and try to kill the hell out of you. Would lead a feller to believin' we're in the final days 'fore the Rapture comes.”

“Straw-haired girl with the face of an angel do this to you?” I said.

Turnbow looked surprised and a bit puzzled, but nodded. “Well, kinda. Woke me up out'n a sound sleep, Tilden. Went to bangin' on my door like my barn was on fire or something. Hell, I 'uz dreamin' 'bout painted women of loose virtue and looser underwear,” Turnbow said and dabbed at the wound on the side of his head. “Still pretty groggy when I opened the door, I guess.”

“Have a dark-haired boy looked like he might be part Injun with her?” Carlton said.

“Yeah. That she did. But he didn't say mucha nothin'. Not at first, anyways. Just kinda hung back in the shadows and looked sulkified. All red in the face. Acted like he might go and bust out cryin' just anytime.”

Nate leaned against a stall rail, pulled the makings, and set to building a hand-rolled. Puffed it to life, then said, “Attack you right off?”

“No. No. They both come inside. Gal said as how Marshal Hayden Tilden, from Fort Smith, had said I 'uz supposed to provide 'em both with a proper mount. Said they needed the horses fast as I could get 'em saddled. Said as how they had to be on their way quick as possible. Made out like you were gonna explain it all for me when morning come.”

“You believe her, Fletch?” Carlton said.

“Hell, no, I didn't believe her. Told both of 'em as much, too, by God. 'Course, soon's I went to questionin' 'em that really ripped the rag off the bush. Words hadn't even got outta my mouth good and that boy started acting like he'd had some loco weed in his last bowl of porridge. Ranted and raved like some kinda madcap. Girl tried to calm him down. Then, she went and pulled a sack fulla money out'n this big ole canvas bag she 'uz a-totin'.”