The Brotherhood of Blood: The Continued Adventures of Hayden Tilden (Hayden Tilden Westerns Book 3) Read online

  The Brotherhood

  of Blood

  J. Lee Butts

  Beyond the Page

  Publishing

  The Brotherhood of Blood

  J. Lee Butts

  Beyond the Page Books

  are published by

  Beyond the Page Publishing

  www.beyondthepagepub.com

  Copyright © 2004, 2014 by J. Lee Butts

  ISBN: 978-1-937349-87-5

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now know or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of both the copyright holder and the publisher.

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  For Carol

  Whose patience and support continue to amaze me

  and

  Roxanne Blackwell Bosserman Whose heartfelt encouragement has kept me going long past the time when many friends have wavered

  A BAD MAN'S COMEUPPANCE

  Zack Queen stumbled through the shattered doorway. Kind of appeared out of a billowing cloud of dust, like magic. I made the mistake of standing to get a better shot. Hymn-singing drunk rubber-legged his way straight for me, and sprayed a wall of lead from an iron-framed Henry rifle. Second or third one cut a hole in my pistol belt and burned through my side like a Civil War surgeon's scalpel. Knocked me flat on my back, and rendered me helpless as a week-old babe.

  Ole Zack staggered all the way to the bottom of the hill, came to a wobbling stop over my poor bleeding ass and yelped, "Well, Tilden, you goddamned do-rights might want to say a prayer or two, 'cause it's time to shake hands with Jesus."

  Then he leveled that Henry up, and managed to take aim at the biggest part of me before Carlton put one in the drunken bastard's fogged-up noggin that went in one side and pushed most of his brain out the other. Brains, blood, and all manner of gore splattered right in my face. Messy business for damned sure.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A big tip of the sombrero and bow from the waist to Michael and Barbara Rosenberg for their continuing efforts on my behalf. Special thanks to Kimberly Lionetti for all her help and understanding. And finally, as always, my limitless gratitude to every member of the DFW Writer's Workshop for a weekly dose of the kind of knowledge, experience, and advice money can't buy.

  When you are about to drink a glass of whiskey, look closely in the bottom and see if you cannot observe therein a hangman's noose. There is where I first saw the one that now breaks my neck.

  Boudinot (Bood) Crumpton

  Youngest man hanged at Fort Smith

  Gates of Hell, October 1, 1890

  Beware of strong drink, for it alone is responsible for my present condition.

  John Thornton

  Oldest man hanged at Fort Smith

  Gates of Hell, June 28, 1892

  Pale death treads with even steps the hovels of the poor and the palaces of kings.

  From the first book of Horace

  Scribbled note found in the

  pocket of Arliss (Barefoot)

  Stackpole, murdered by Zack

  Queen, 1883

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  EPILOGUE

  PROLOGUE

  WELL, NOW, LET'S get this manhunt moving. I'd just got back to Fort Smith from a trip to the Choctaw Nation. Been out trying to catch L. B. Ledoux. Ended up having to kill the stupid bastard.

  Truth is, I only went out on that raid by accident. Deputy by the name of Jasper Fowler caught me, and some others, loafing around Marshal Valentine Dell's outer office one cool spring morning. He sidled up, straddled a chair, and said, "Gotta make a run over to Blue Mountain. Any you boys wanna string along?"

  Must have been six or eight of those who rode for Judge Parker, whittling, spitting, and telling lies that morning. But none of the congregation jumped up and volunteered to help ole Jasper. Didn't take long 'fore I got to feeling right sorry for the man.

  "Come on now, fellers. Know it ain't much, but I don't wanna make this here trip alone." Sounded like he was about to break down and cry there for a second or two.

  Can't remember who finally spoke up, but one of the more devoutly worshipful said, "Who're you going out for this time, Jasper?"

  Fowler scratched a match to life and lit a hand-rolled. "L. B. Ledoux." He blew smoke toward the ceiling and spit a sprig of tobacco into our growing pile of pine shavings.

  Took a spell, but the next question to bubble up came from Trapper Starks. "What'd the sorry son of a bitch do to warrant our attention—again?"

  "Stole a horse. Maybe more'n one. Farmer over in the Nations by the name of Boston missed at least one of his'n. He filed the complaint. Need another man, maybe two, to stroll down with me and gather L. B. up. Won't take more'n four or five days over, and as many to get back. Guaranteed money. Know exactly where the thievin' bastard's located. Won't even have to chase him any. Just bring him in and collect."

  Should've paid closer attention. Wasn't thinking straight that morning, I guess. Felt sorry for Jasper and raised my hand. "Don't have anything going on right now myself. Always liked Blue Mountain. Beautiful place up there this time of year. Nice, easy ride. We'll just mosey down his way and drag ole L. B. back, Jasper. Find out what Judge Parker has in store for him. Year or two up in the Detroit Correctional Facility shouldn't do him any harm."

  Billy Bird shaved off another sliver from what he said was going to be a bust of Robert E. Lee. "If Hayden's going, you can count me in." He shot me a sneaky grin and winked. "It'll be fun."

  Foggy as my antiquated mind's become, I can still see Elizabeth standing on the porch next morning, waving good-bye. She's probably the most vivid piece of that particular recollection. Seems like memories of hearth and home tend to jump out at you later when things go horribly wrong.

  Jasper, Billy, and me had an uneventful trip. Just meandered along and enjoyed ourselves immensely. Stopped a few times on the way and went fishing in Caney Creek. Caught a big ole catfish that must've weighed near ten pounds. Mighty fine eating.

  Found Ledoux's shack three days or so after we crossed the Arkansas and punched into the Kiamichi Mountains. L. B. kept company with a Choctaw gal named Mary White Leg. Every tobacco-chewing plow pusher within five
miles of their cabin knew where the couple stayed.

  Their combination farm and horse-selling operation occupied a mountainside spot that looked down on mist-covered rolling foothills. Had the kind of view people today would pay a handsome price for. Soon as we rode into the chicken-shit-covered yard, things went sour in a damned big hurry.

  Billy noted there weren't any animals to be seen. Under his breath, he mumbled my direction, "Shade strange for a horse operation not to have any horses available, ain't it?"

  Jasper jumped off his mount, stomped up onto the cluttered porch, and started banging at the door like a man possessed. Cannot to this very minute imagine what in the blue-eyed hell he thought he was doing. Seemed to me a damned stupid act, then and now. Maybe he just wanted to show off or something. Could be that was the way he always did his business. Never heard anyone else comment on one side of the question or the other. Damned sure didn't get a chance to ask Jasper.

  He whacked the door some more and started yelling, "Get your sorry thievin' ass out here, Ledoux. I'm a deputy U.S. marshal from Judge Parker's court in Fort Smith, you horse-stealing son of a bitch. Have a bona fide warrant for your arrest. Open up, goddammit."

  Got mighty quiet for a second or so. Billy said, "Don't like the looks of this a bit, Hayden. Something's not right here."

  Jasper stood spraddle-legged with his fists on his hips. Man vibrated like a picked banjo string. He grunted and grinned at us over his shoulder. Then he kicked the hell out of the rickety door. He'd booted the grimy slats four or five times when a shotgun blast from inside ripped a hole in those rough planks and punched a cavern the size of my fist in his heaving chest. Tightly bunched wad of twelve-gauge shot pushed the moon-and-star-shaped badge out his back in a knot of blood, bone, and metal. Knocked him ten feet. Boy flew like a corn-shuck doll caught in a cyclone of spraying gore. Hit the ground right at my horse Gunpowder's feet. The sorrel gelding spooked and started bucking. You'd a thought he had a grass burr the size of a bucket up his butt.

  As that big, rough beast twirled, bounced, and hopped around the barnyard, Billy whipped out both his Schofield .45s and blasted the front of Ledoux's shack so fast the gunfire sounded like one continuous explosion. In spite of considerable concentration on trying my level best to stay in the saddle, I could hear people yelling and screaming behind the bullet-riddled walls. Sounded like Billy might have put holes in at least two of 'em.

  Once I got control of Gunpowder again, we managed to make safety behind a stand of trees about a hundred feet from where Jasper gushed the rest of his short, stupid life into the ground. Pulled rifles, shotguns, and extra ammunition on the run.

  Billy signaled his intention to circle the cabin and cover any attempted escape from the back. Left me in charge of everything out front—including Jasper's twitching corpse. Only good part of the whole deal lay in a fluke of topography. Timber cover, and Ledoux's shack, occupied the same level of a stumpy, flattened hill. Leastways we weren't below any shooters Billy'd accidentally left alive.

  Had barely got myself settled and primed when a woman I assumed was Mary White Leg stepped out on the cabin's ramshackle porch. "We have wounded in here, marshals. Some of the men are in a bad way."

  Billy hadn't built his nest exactly where he wanted yet. From behind a lightning-splintered oak on the west side of Ledoux's crude dwelling, he yelled, "Tell 'em to throw down their weapons and come out, one at a time, with their hands in the air, palms up. Any more treachery from the ambushing bastards and we'll kill every man in there."

  Got no way of knowing exactly what she intended. People often do strange things when folks around them commence dying in violent ways. Mary White Leg ducked her head and started down the steps. Heard a man's strangled voice from behind what was left of the perforated door. Couldn't tell exactly what was said at first.

  Voice kept getting louder. Finally he screamed, "Come back here, woman. Get back in this house, right goddamned now." She just kept on a-hoofin' it. Never looked back. Made it about ten feet past Jasper's oozing carcass. Then she looked up at me like she thought I could help her.

  For a second or so our eyes met. She was scared to death. I could see it on her face. Rifle shot from the doorway brought her down. She held most of a shattered heart in blood-soaked hands when she hit the ground. Ended up on her knees—a strange, crooked statue of death that leaned but never fell.

  Billy and I both cut loose with everything we had. Might've only been two of us, but that makeshift hut rattled and shook like we were cranking a Gatling gun. Not much of a place to hide when you're behind single-plank walls.

  Screaming and whooping from inside started all over again. Since we could pour lead directly in on them, the scum-sucking dogs didn't have a chance. Especially with Deputy Marshal Billy Bird blasting away. Sweet William had an amazing knack for putting holes in bad men—even when he couldn't see them.

  Two of us made things so hot inside that tinderbox of Ledoux's, guess them ole boys just couldn't stand the heat. Three men broke for freedom. Dumb bastards almost made it to the woods. But they headed right into a wall of pistol fire. Don't think I'd ever seen grown men do anything quite so stupid up till then. Billy Bird stepped from behind his tree and blew 'em out of their well-worn boots—easy as eating apple pie on Sunday.

  Got mighty quiet once the gunfire finally died down. We waited almost an hour, and nothing else happened. Not a sound. Right eerie, after all the shouting, shooting, and dying that'd gone on just previous. Made my skin crawl.

  Body count outside came to one of us and four of them—if you included that poor dead woman. Not a hint available as to what awaited us inside. And to tell the righteous truth, I didn't look forward to finding out.

  Eventually Billy made his way back to my hidey-hole. We talked it over and decided to rush whoever might be left. Got onto the wobbly veranda without incident—still no sound or movement. Surprised us when we burst inside with our shotguns cocked and ready to deal out more death and destruction. No one there.

  Marshal Bird stood in the middle of swirling dust, broken dishes, busted furniture, and a pile of used whiskey bottles. He said, "Musta got all 'em, Hayden."

  Place was emptier than a rain barrel in Arizona. They'd all come out the front because L. B. Ledoux, who evidently wasn't much at building houses, hadn't bothered to put a back door in the place.

  Billy said, "Too damned stupid to take a shotgun and blow a hole in the wall. God Almighty, people this dumb don't need to be using up my air."

  Couldn't help but add my two pennies' worth. "Hate these goddamned whiskey-swilling bastards, Marshal Bird. Judge Parker's right. Damned stuff they drink is nothing but a 'fruitful source of evil, disorder, and criminal activity—a many-headed demon.' "

  As it turned out, Ledoux was one of the dumber-than-a-fencepost runners Billy put down when they hoofed it for the briars and brambles. Two of them ole boys managed to still be alive in spite of being shot up pretty good.

  For reasons known only to a benevolent God, Jumpin' Joe Moody and Rufus Low Dog didn't succumb to unknowable internal injuries, colossal blood loss, our questionable medical efforts, or rampant infection. Sons of bitches lived, and made it back to Fort Smith for trial. Hell, maybe the whiskey saved 'em. Who knows?

  Some damned good lawyers got 'em off, too. Claimed those boys hadn't stole anything. Didn't have the slightest idea who we were. Whole bloody mess got heaped on Ledoux's poor dead noggin. He killed Jasper, they said. Shot his wife, too, according to their highly questionable testimony. That's the story they told. And it worked. Damned soft-headed juries turned 'em loose.

  The nightmares started right after that. In the dream, I saw Mary White Leg's face as clear as if she were standing in front of me this instant. She ran toward me. Hope took over, and she smiled. Second later, most of her face disappeared behind a cloud of scarlet vapor gushing from her chest. Gory vision had the power to snap me upright like someone standing at the foot of my bed had cracked a muleskinner's bu
llwhip deep inside my brain.

  Thank God that particular horror stayed with me but a short time. 'Bout midway through Rufus Low Dog's day in court, I dragged Zack Queen back to Fort Smith and Carlton J. Cecil started us on the gruesome path to the Brotherhood of Blood. Never had another dream about Mary White Leg after we went out searching for Precious Tall Dog. Horrors of that hunt blotted out damned near everything else for years to come.

  1

  "RANCID BODY POPPED TO THE SURFACE"

  IN THE SUMMER of '48 I'll just be damned if Franklin J. Lightfoot Jr. didn't make good on his threat about dragging my ancient moss-covered ass out to Hollywood, Cali-damn-fornia, to talk movie deals with A. Maxwell Vought. Junior made out like it was my eighty-ninth birthday present.

  Our own personal big-time producer and self-styled mogul paid all the freight for Frank, nurse Heddy McDonald, and me. Flew us out on an airplane no less. Put us up in a joint looked like a whorehouse called the Beverly Hills Hotel. I cared not one damned bit for that flying part of the deal.

  Day after we arrived Maxwell treated us to breakfast at a place named the Polo Lounge. Soon's I'd had three of them drinks called Bloody Marys, it didn't take me long to start telling tall ones. Hell, them movie people encouraged it. 'Specially a couple of damned good-looking gals at the table. Said they wanted to hear all my tales of the old west, hunting bad men and such. Ain't nothing like female flattery to loosen up an old man's lip.

  The Brotherhood just kinda popped out. Hadn't meant to say anything concerning that particular experience. Actually came to talk about Frank's book, Lawdog. But the truth is, you just can't keep something as awful as the Brotherhood hidden forever. So, with a gallery of the blondest, tannest people alive hanging on my every word, I hit 'em with the stunning horror of the thing from beginning to end.

  Studied my audience a bit, leaned back in the chair, and said, "I've never told anyone this bloody tale."