Gun Work: The Further Exploits of Hayden Tilden (6 page)

“Tart? Coconuts?”

“Absolutely. 'S why I stopped boilin' 'em. Couldn't get the tart out of 'em.”

Had to strain quite a bit to keep from busting a gut. Didn't want to offend Nate. Snapped the glass down to its shortest length. Shoved it back into the battered, army-surplus, leather carrying case, and dropped it into my saddlebag. Gritted my teeth and went to checking the loads in my pistols.

Nate took the hint and set to scrutinizing his weapons, too.

Flipped the loading gate open on my belly gun, rolled the cylinder around. Stared at each shell as it passed, then said, “Don't care for boiled coconuts with your collard greens, huh?”

“Hate 'em. Damned things make me colicky, if'n I eat 'em boiled. Gut gets to hurtin' so bad I sometimes cry like a baby. Boil 'em and they leave you with a definite aftertaste, too. Sticks with a body for hours. Kinda like a mouthful of prairie bitterweed. Enough to make a starvin', Texas long-horn steer spit it out.”

“Aftertaste. Kind of like bitterweed.”

“Yep.”

“Must really like them fried then?”

“Only thing's better, you ask me, is fried armadiller.”

“Fried armadillo. Sweet Jesus.”

Man grinned like a raccoon trying to wash a loaf of fresh-baked bread in a fast running creek. “Tasty. Ain't kiddin' a bit, Tilden. Really tasty. Fry up some coconuts along with an armadiller, and you've got yourself one helluva meal, my friend.”

Returned the last of my three pistols to the holster at my back. Slipped the Winchester out of the boot. Jacked a shell into the breech, then laid it across my saddle just behind the horn.

Touched Gunpowder's side with a spur, started easing down the knoll. Nate followed. When he got up close I said,

“Three droopy-looking nags tied at the hitch racks outside that false-front building in the middle, yonder—one with the sign over the door proclaiming it as BLACK'S. Bet a year's pay those animals belong to the boys we're looking for, Nate.”

Out of the corner of my eye, saw him stand in his stirrups and rub his back. Settled in and said, “Sure as hell hope so. Horse of mine's about to wear me down to a nub.”

“Bring these boys to book, we'll drag them over to Tishomingo. Lock them up in the Chickasaws' brand-new combination courthouse and jail.”

“Works for me.”

“And you know, I've been thinking, Nate. We get these ole boys back to Fort Smith, you're gonna have to invite Elizabeth and me over for one of those coconut and armadillo sit-downs.”

“Sounds good, if these three bastards are willing to go back. But if'n they ain't, we get finished sending the egg-suckin' sons a bitches to Satan, Tilden, we'll for sure 'nuff do 'er. Might even cook up a couple a opossums for you, too. Only bake a opossum on extra special occasions, you know.”

“Baked opossums? You're for sure kidding now, right?”

“Oh, no. Nice fat opossum's tastiest of the three of 'em, you ask me. Makes my mouth water just thinkin' 'bout cookin' up a juicy opossum. Good piece of opossum haunch is a meal fit fer a king, by God.”

He went silent after that. Seriousness of the situation pimpled to a puss-filled head closer we got to our destination. Quickly put a damper on our ricochet into jocularity, fried coconuts, and downright silliness.

Headed straight for the centermost structure in Lone Pine. Hadn't gone far when I detected the tinny sound of music wafting from the rickety building's front entrance.

Drew our mounts to a stop on the far side of a muddy, rutted trace that ran a meandering course up from the river into a stand of trees off to the north. Couldn't have stepped down much more than sixty feet from the front entrance of an illegal whiskey-vending operation that sounded like it was chugging along full tilt. Position gave us a far better ear on the rinky-tink piano melody coming from inside.

Tied the animals to a spindly cottonwood. Only living tree within a hundred feet located on our side of the rudimentary thoroughfare.

Thumbed the hammer back on the Winchester. Made sure the hammer thongs on all my pistols were hanging loose, then glanced over at Nate and asked, “Should we call them out, or go inside and brace them where they sit?”

My hard-eyed partner rested his short-barreled ten gauge on one shoulder, scrunched his face up, then said, “Let's go in and surprise 'em. Stupid bastards can't possibly know they're about to take a fall. Desperate as these boys are, we call 'em out, announce our presence, bet they'll hide next to the doorway and go to blastin' at us right where we stand.” He glanced around, then added, “And there sure as hell ain't no place to hide out here in the street. 'Cept maybe behind the horses.”

Said, “Sounds good to me. Get up close to them, maybe they'll think twice about being foolish enough to draw down on us.”

Then, we headed for the bloodred batwing doors of Black's.

Bit to my left and half a step behind me, Nate said, “Get a chance, Tilden, I'm gonna cook you up some of my world-famous snappin' turtle stew. Throw in a couple a catfish heads, few raw turnips, some alligator meat, and, boy howdee, you got a real lip smacker goin'.”

Couldn't do much but shake my head and grin.

No boardwalk in Lone Pine. Set of rickety-looking steps, made from rough-cut, unplaned boards, led into Black's front entrance. We stood on the top tread, gazed over the café doors, and scanned the pitiful interior of the place.

Under his breath Nate hissed, “Wish Carlton J. Cecil coulda come with us. Always like havin' that redheaded devil with a pistol along anytime we have to put lead in the air.”

“Me, too,” I said. “Always feel a bunch safer when Carl's around. Man can thumb a pistol faster than a chicken can peck seed from a metal pie plate.”

My partner grunted, as though someone had pulled all the hair out of his nose at the same time, then said, “Guess by now he's probably already got that carbuncle on his rump lanced. Sweet mama. Heard tell as how that thing was the size of a grown man's fist. Makes me cringe just thinkin' 'bout it.”

Whispering, I said, “It's a big one all right. Maybe the biggest I've ever seen. Went by to check on him day we rode out. Man was having trouble standing. Barely able to walk out onto the porch and wave good-bye. Hobbled around like a one-legged cripple.”

Interior of Black's joint amounted to little more than a single, oblong wooden-and-canvas box, of about twenty by thirty feet. Rough-cut pine boards came up about three feet off the floor, like wainscoting in a house. Shabby, patched, canvas roof and half walls let in sunlight like a worn-out flour sifter. Three poles in the middle of the room held up the roof. Five tables scattered around the room. Only two were occupied. Three fellers sitting at the one closest to the door. Men we wanted took up space in the far corner. Bar, comprised of a single plank board atop two barrels, stood on the left, just inside the door.

Pushed the batwings aside with the barrels of our weapons and stepped inside. Heard the hammers of Nate's shotgun snap back, as we stepped over the roadhouse's threshold.

Nate headed left and attempted to wave the bartender into silence. Man, who bore a striking resemblance to a rake handle sporting a moustache the size of a wharf rat, snapped to attention behind one of the barrels. Went to waving his bar rag at us, then called out, “Wait just a damned minute, now. Just, by God, wait a minute.”

Sounded like spit on a hot stove lid when Nate said, “Shut the hell up, you ignert son of a bitch.”

Fellers at the table by the door hopped up and disappeared through the batwings like windblown steam.

Eyeballed our prey at the ramshackle table near an idle potbellied stove in the hangout's far corner. None of them appeared to have taken notice of our arrival. Given the number of empty bottles atop their table and on the floor, would have surprised me if any of the drunken trio would have noticed Gabriel blowing his horn for the Second Coming.

Flicked a quick, corner-of-the-eye glance over at Nate. He had a finger pressed against his lips and was shaking his head at the bug-eyed bartender. Whiskey wrangler had his hands up, kept shooting horrified looks from Nate to me, and vibrated like a plucked banjo string.

No more than ten feet from the far end of the bar, Black's piano player, eyes closed, head back like he was entertaining the king of France, tinkled away at his keyboard. Swayed back and forth on his wobbly bench like a weeping willow in a light breeze. Man was serious into his music.

Motioned Nate on around to my left toward the battered, upright music box. For no reason I could imagine, the ivory tickler's eyes suddenly popped open like a pair of cheap, paper window shades. He went to blinking and glanced around like a man who'd just woke up and didn't recognize his surroundings. Spotted us and stopped playing. His pale, stubble-covered face went scarlet. Veins popped out on his neck. Then, he hopped up and unceremoniously wobbled through a door in the wall right next to his twangy-sounding instrument.

Eased my way to the center of the room, next to one of the poles holding the canvas roof up. Couple of dust devils wafted off my boots. Tiny twisters twirled across the floor in front of me like a pair of intoxicated dancers, hit the stove and flew all to pieces. Ended up four or five steps away from the three drunks in the corner. Was close enough to them that no matter what happened knew I wouldn't miss whoever I picked to die first.

BROUGHT MY WINCHESTER to bear on the trio. Addressed the man sitting on the backside of the table when I called out, “Okay, Mort, you boys best throw all your iron on the floor. Then get up real slow. Keep your hands where I can see 'em when you do it.”

Mordecai Staine, who'd spent the whole time I approached them staring at the scarred tabletop, as though on the verge of drifting off to sleep or maybe passing slap out, snapped his head back with all the speed of a man sitting on the bottom of a deep, cold lake. With agonizing, near-paralytic slowness, he pushed back in his chair, then shoved a sweat-stained, wide-brimmed Stetson to the back of his head with one finger.

Brothers Darius and Dolphus swayed to their feet. Hands hovering over still holstered, well-used pistols, they backed into the tent saloon's far corner. Took a stand on either side of their eldest.

Mordecai's bloodshot, rheumy-eyed gaze wobbled around the room till it landed on me. “Jus' be got damned,” he said. “If'n it ain't Deppidy Marshal Hayden by-God Tilden, I'll shit in my hat, then eat it. Whachoo doin' all the way out here on the back side a nowhere, Deppidy Tilden? Mus' be sumthin' important for Isaac Parker's personal, hand-picked killer to show up way'n the hell out here. Brung another badge-totin' killer with you, too, I see.”

Moved the Winchester, ever so slightly, and leveled the muzzle up on Mordecai's breastbone. Figured the heavy-grain bullet would go plumb through him at that range. Blow a big chunk of heart and lung onto the wooden half wall and flapping canvas at his back.

“My partner and I've come to arrest you fellers, Mort,” I said. “Take you boys back to Fort Smith, where you'll dangle from a piece of Maledon's oiled Kentucky hemp at the Gates of Hell gallows down in the hollow next to the courthouse. Once you've stood trial and Judge Parker sees fit, of course.”

Darius, gaunt, ghostly pale, and sporting the appearance of an advanced consumptive, coughed into his off hand. Fingers draped over his pistol grip twitched when he hissed, “We ain't done nothin', you law-bringin' son of a bitch. Why you Parker boys wanna go botherin' us? Why doanchu just hike it on outta here and leave us to our drinkin'.”

Dolphus, whose eyes seemed just a mite too far apart in his wide, childlike face, let out a strange, eerie, hacking cackle. Said, “Yup. Why'er you Parker boys goin' and botherin' us? We ain't done nuthin'. Jus' hike it on outta here. Leave us to, uhhhh, well, you know, like Darius done said.”

Felt rather than saw Nate, as he moved a step and a half along the wall, and a mite closer to the action. Sounded like a cornered wolf growling when he said, “Stupid questions you're askin', boys. You know exactly why we're here.”

Dolphus flashed an idiotic grin. “I don't,” he said, then giggled into the back of a filth-encrusted hand. “I don't be knowin' why you 'uns is here.”

“Shut up, Dolphus,” Mordecai snarled.

Dolphus ducked, as though someone had slapped him on the back of the head, then whimpered, “Well, I don't.”

Could hear the growing irritation in Nate's voice when he snarled, “You sons a bitches can't rob a Van Buren bank, then go and murder women and children in the process of gettin' away, and think you can escape punishment for your evil deeds. Now, if you don't wanna end up deader'n rotten tree stumps, best get to doin' like Tilden said. Two-finger them pistols outta their holsters and drop 'em on the floor.”

“An' what if we don't?” Darius snapped back, then went into another fit of croupy coughing. Wiped a blood-flecked spew from his lips, and said, “Personally, I don't believe you sons a bitches got the
huevos
to do nothin'. Case you didn't notice, they's three of us. Ain't but two of you.”

“Yeah, wha' if'n we doan do what y'all want? Yeah, an' them
huevos
, too,” Dolphus said through a spray of slobbers. Then, he glanced at his oldest brother for approval. Drool ran down the man's chin and dropped onto the front of a never-washed, band-collared shirt the color of a year-old cow flop.

Sounded like a crosscut saw ripping through oak logs when Nate growled, “Any of you woman-killin' bastards get feisty, I'm gonna splatter the three of you all over the ceiling and wall. I touch this ten gauge off and there won't be enough left of you to run through Granny's favorite food mill.”