Hell in the Nations: The Further Adventures of Hayden Tilden (Hayden Tilden Westerns Book 2) Read online

  Wilton crossed his legs, ran a manicured thumb and finger along the crease of his trousers, and flicked at little bits of dust as he drew the hand back. “His descent into murder and depravity began when as a teacher he vacated the tiny hamlet of Mount Joy, Ohio, in the company of one of his female students. A girl named Veronica Boatman, if memory serves.” Wilton’s deep Southern voice had the seeming power to both soothe and invigorate the listener at the same time.

  “Unfortunate, but not all that unusual, Mr. Wilton. I’ve heard several such stories about teachers and students right here in Fort Smith.”

  “You are quite right, Marshal. But Miss Boatman possessed an astonishing beauty, and Paine soon forced the girl into selling her flesh to keep them in funds as they made their way along the Ohio to the Mississippi and thence to New Orleans. Upon arrival in that den of iniquity, Mr. Paine discovered a hidden talent for poker and other games of chance. The young lady worked the bars and saloons along the waterfront whilst he gambled and drank.”

  “Well, I haven’t heard anything yet that would inspire Judge Parker to set me on the man’s trail.”

  Wilton twisted in his chair. “Do you mind if I smoke, Mr. Tilden?”

  “Not at all. You’ll find an ashtray on the table to your left.”

  With a stag-handled pocketknife, he clipped the end from and lit a maduro panatela. The dense smoke had a hint of rum, and quickly filled the room with its heavy aroma.

  “About two years ago, Paine’s reputation as a gambler and gunman started to spread from New Orleans to the outer reaches of civilization. He claimed responsibility for at least five killings as the result of disagreements over his card-shuffling ability, and two more that involved men who made the mistake of falling in love with the beautiful Miss Boatman. Then—for reasons as yet unexplained—he added Veronica Boatman to his list of murders.”

  “He killed the girl?”

  “So far as we can determine. At any rate, he fled New Orleans shortly before authorities there discovered her brutalized body in their living quarters. Her throat had been slit and the corpse exhibited numerous stab wounds. His trail led directly to the Nations. He has been operating there and on the fringes of Texas, Kansas, and Arkansas for some time now.”

  “But why do we want him? The only crimes you’ve told me about should involve Louisiana lawmen.”

  “Two weeks ago he and another bad one named Orvis Blocker stopped at the home of a Mr. Titus Burton on the line between the Choctaw and Creek Nations. They asked to come inside and warm themselves by the fire—a common request out in the wild places. Mr. Burton, a trusting soul and friend to everyone, admitted them. Once they gained entrance, Paine further requested that they be allowed to sleep on the floor. Burton agreed, had his wife make a pallet near the fire, and left them in the room with his hired man, Able Stoddard, who slept on a cot that occupied one corner of the main room.” Wilton stopped for a moment, picked a piece of tobacco from his teeth, and dropped it in the ashtray.

  “I have the feeling we’re about to get to the crux of this matter, Mr. Wilton.”

  “You are correct, Marshal. At about two A.M., Paine and Blocker arose, skulked into Burton’s bedroom, and shot the man dead while he slept next to his wife and children. Stoddard, awakened by the shooting, leaped from his cot. The killers fired on him, but—as he went down—he grappled with Blocker and wrestled him to the floor. Paine seized an ax from beside the fireplace and struck the unarmed man a blow in the neck that left a terrible wound. Stoddard fought them bravely, only to have his right hand chopped off in the fray. As he lay on the floor bleeding profusely from horrendous wounds, Paine struck the fallen man several more times in the back and legs, then left him swimming in a pool of his own blood. Next, they turned their attention to Mrs. Burton and assaulted her in the most brutal fashion before the very eyes of her four children.”

  “God Almighty—what finally brought the insanity to an end?”

  Wilton tapped his cigar on the lip of the glass bowl, drew more of the thick smoke into his lungs, and sighed. “The family dog set up a racket outside and the killers rushed into the night. They obviously feared someone was approaching the house. Mrs. Burton drew the children about her, slipped out a back door, and walked barefoot for almost a mile to a neighbor’s home. Miraculously, the much-abused Mr. Stoddard survived.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. “The man managed to live through being chopped up with a double-bit ax?”

  Wilton pointed with his cigar toward the package of documents on the table. “Yes—and you’ll find his statement, along with that of Mrs. Burton, on the bottom of that sizable stack of paper. We had a stenographer take the poor man’s deposition as quickly as possible for fear he still might die from the dreadful wounds inflicted by Smilin’ Jack Paine and his friend.”

  It might have seemed a trivial matter, but the image of a grinning fiend hacking away at the wounded Mr. Stoddard flashed across my mind and wouldn’t go away. “Is there any indication in your record of how he got the moniker Smilin’ Jack?”

  “According to those who know him, he smiles almost all the time—no matter the situation. Such a countenance tends to fool most people into misinterpreting his grinning expression as being one of friendliness. At least that’s what I’m told. Others maintain that he tends toward the slack-jawed idiot in appearance.”

  “Has he been seen since Burton’s murder?”

  “We have some sketchy reports from near McAlester’s Store that he and his accomplice robbed several people along the M.K.&T. line near Atoka. They’ve shot at least two other men and had their way with another woman caught alone and too far from protection. Some believe he headquarters in an area between Tishomingo on the west, Durant on the south, and Atoka on the north. However credible, these reports might well be little more than conjecture.”

  I thought the meeting had drawn to an end, and stood to bid Mr. Wilton farewell. “I’ll get on this as soon as possible. Please inform Judge Parker of my hope to put these men before him for judgment or before God for punishment. One way or the other, their outlaw days are about to come to an end.”

  Wilton rose, but made no move to leave. “There is one other thing, Marshal Tilden.”

  “Yes.”

  “Judge Parker asked me to request that you go about this particular hunt in a somewhat different manner.”

  “How so?”

  “He would like you to accompany another marshal as one of his posse.”

  “Who did he have in mind?”

  “Barnes Reed.” He allowed the name to hang in the air like a heavy cloud between us before continuing. “Would you have a problem with that, sir?”

  Barnes Reed enjoyed a hard-earned reputation as one of the bravest and best of my fellow marshals. He’d been with Judge Parker from the earliest days of the law’s arrival in Fort Smith. Hadn’t had the chance to work with him in the past, and only knew the man by sight.

  “What would be the point of me accompanying Marshal Reed on this hunt?”

  Wilton leaned over and crushed his burning cigar in Elizabeth’s crystal ashtray. “Marshal Reed has arrested Jack Paine before and knows him. Paine was a prisoner in our jail for almost a year before being bonded out by friends. Reed was already in possession of a fugitive warrant on Paine for failure to appear in court. Now these additional charges make his arrest or death more urgent. We felt a joint effort might expedite the matter of his capture or disposal. Judge Parker wants Paine and any accomplices, including Orvis Blocker, out of circulation as quickly as possible. Murderous rapists running amok tend to make the entire population of the Nations and northern Arkansas uneasy, Marshal Tilden.”

  “Is Reed aware of my understanding with Judge Parker?”

  “No, he is not. As promised, the Judge, you, and I are the only three people living privy to the secret nature of your unique efforts on his behalf. I can assure you no one will ever learn the facts of the arrangement from us.”

  “Does the Jud
ge wish me to make certain these men do not return for trial?”

  Wilton studied on that one for a moment before answering. “Given the nature and history of Paine and his friends, we doubt you’ll have much choice in this matter. Murder is one thing, but they’ve also raped at least two women. Be assured, resistance to arrest and return to Fort Smith is a virtual certainty.”

  “Barnes Reed has a well-known reputation for bringing his men back, Mr. Wilton. Doesn’t care to kill them unless absolutely necessary, or so I’m told.”

  “In this particular set of circumstances, Mr. Tilden, we feel certain they will resist.” He smiled again, bowed slightly, and left without saying another word. I knew beyond any doubt I’d just been given license to rid the countryside of Smilin’ Jack Paine and anyone in his company by whatever means necessary. He and his friends’ days among the living could be counted like grains of disappearing sand in the top half of an hourglass.

  Junior tapped the eraser of his pencil on the notepad and waved at me like a man trying to bring a footrace to a halt. “Hold it just a minute.”

  “Look at this, Carl. We haven’t seen the boy in over four months, I’ve been talking less than ten minutes, and he’s already stopped me.”

  Cecil rolled a lemon drop around in his mouth and sputtered, “What didn’t you understand, Junior?”

  “Well, who was Barnes Reed? You’ve never mentioned him before. Could you tell me about him?”

  “Sweet Jehoshaphat riding a buffalo! He don’t know about Barnes Reed, Hayden. Can you believe that?”

  “Yeah, actually it’s easy to believe. In spite of the fact that Barnes was probably a better man than all the rest of us combined.”

  By now Lightfoot had pretty much figured our little act out, and instead of getting red in the face like he had during the first series of interviews, he just smiled, wrote a few more words on the page of his notepad, and asked the same question again.

  “Can either of you tell me about Barnes Reed?” He sounded like a father talking to a couple of his sons who’d been caught stealing fresh-baked pies off the neighbor’s windowsill.

  Carlton perked up and sounded almost intelligent for a change. “Hayden’s right. No one commanded the kind of respect Barnes got from friends and enemies alike. Even the worst of ‘knew if he hit the trail carrying a warrant what bore their names, the wild times of bein’ out on the scout were pretty well over.”

  “Cannot recall seeing his name in any of my initial research materials, and you didn’t mention anything about him in your last group of recollections, Mr. Tilden.”

  “Well, Junior, doubt you’ll find much on Barnes in any of the handful of books written about our exploits in the Nations. Have to go a little deeper. Check out some of the Indian newspapers published in the territories during the ’80s, or perhaps one of the weeklies put out around Paris, Texas, in the 1890s.”

  “Why do you suppose that is, Mr. Tilden?” He scratched at his ear with his pencil and shifted further back into his chair. Few more inches and he’d have been lying down. Mr. Franklin J. Lightfoot, Jr., had become considerably more relaxed around the two of us old killers. Thought at the time I liked him more that way. The tension between us while he wrote Lawdog had been a novelty at first, but tended to tire me out just watching it.

  “Barnes Reed was a black fellow, Junior.”

  The only outward sign of my revelation’s impact on the Arkansas Gazette’s star features writer was a brief fluttering of the eyelids, kind of like a window shade that slips from your grip and bangs around on its roller for a few seconds.

  “I am aware some black deputy marshals did work out of the Parker court, but must admit nothing in my research netted the name Barnes Reed. At least, I don’t remember having run across such a person.”

  “Need to check again, Junior. Bet you’ll find him mentioned prominently among those feared by bad men all over the Nations, Arkansas, Texas, and Kansas. Barnes Reed was a hell of a man.”

  “Hell of a man,” Carlton chimed. “If’n I had to go back into the wilds today and could pick between Hayden Tilden and Barnes Reed—it’d be a damned tough choice. Of course, since Hayden’s still alive and sittin’ right here with us, you can tell everyone that I’d pick him.” His mouth fell open in another gap-toothed grin. The lemon drop rested on top of his tongue and swam in a tiny pool of saliva like a little yellow boat.

  “Suppose you met this fabulous manhunter in the U.S. Marshal’s office or Judge Parker’s chambers.”

  “Wrong again there, Junior. Met him in the Napoli Café and Pie Shop on Rogers Avenue in Fort Smith. Barnes had an astonishing sweet tooth. He could put away an entire custard pie faster’n any man I ever knew.”

  Carlton sat up and mined for more candy in his covers. “Personally always liked that Italian feller’s chocolate pies best. Me’n Barnes used to race to see who could polish his off the fastest.”

  Junior looked considerably surprised. “You knew this man that well, Mr. Cecil?”

  “Sure. I was the other posse man who went out after Smilin’ Jack. That’s how me and Hayden met.”

  Day after I talked with Mr. Wilton, I stepped into the Napoli Café just in time to witness a pie-gobbling contest between Barnes Reed and a little red-haired feller who looked like it would be a pretty good trick if he could even hold that much at one sitting. They managed to finish off at almost exactly the same instant. Whole competition appeared too close to call, as near as I could tell. Barnes probably could have won the race, but spent most of the time laughing at his opponent, who’d managed to smear toasted meringue all the way up into his eyebrows. The black marshal, wide as a doubled-up barn door and thick with ropy muscles, beat on the tabletop with his right hand and laughed so loud the windows rattled. His shirt, large enough to make a sideshow tent, strained at every seam, and sleeves too short for arms the size of tree trunks stopped about two inches above his wrists.

  When I walked up, he spotted my badge, glanced at the Winchester, and immediately invited me to take a seat. “Mr. Tilden, I believe. Heard plenty about you and your big rifle.” A voice so deep it seemed to come from somewhere outside the man rumbled across the table. His enormous right hand found mine and shook it vigorously. I’d never felt such strength from another human being. He motioned toward his laughing friend and said, “Meet the other member of our posse, Mr. Tilden. This here’s my good friend Deputy Marshal Carlton J. Cecil.”

  Cecil wiped creamy bits of filling and crust from his fingers and greeted me in much the same way as his cohort. “My pleasure, sir.” He smiled, and immediately went back to sopping the remnants of his feast with sticky, crumb-covered fingers.

  “You appear ready and primed for the chase, Marshal Tilden,” Barnes commented as he wiped his hands with a spotless napkin.

  “Always prepared for the worst when more than a few steps away from the front door of my home, sir. I’m told you prefer to wait until tomorrow morning for our departure.”

  “Yes. Carlton and I must give testimony in Judge Parker’s court later this afternoon. We brought a scoundrel named Grantland Dillworthy to heel ’bout a month ago. He couldn’t make bond and only just now got a trial date. So, if it won’t be too much of a problem, we’ll meet you out by the ferry slips tomorrow morning at your convenience, and get after Smilin’ Jack and his friend Orvis Blocker.”

  “I’m told you know Paine by sight.”

  “And Blocker as well. Smilin’ Jack’s a medium-built stack of cow dung, with long stringy hair he lets hang out on his shoulders. Has a scar across his left cheek where a member of the Union cavalry slashed him during the Battle of Pea Ridge. Usually sports a heavy mustache and chin whiskers. When we find Jack, Blocker will most surely be nearby. The men are rarely out of one another’s sight.”

  Cecil nudged me with his elbow. “Cain’t miss that peacock Blocker. He tends to dress hisself in leftover military duds. Don’t know where he finds the stuff, but every time I’ve seen him he’s managed to
dandy up in another cavalry officer’s long dress coat and hat. Carries a pair of old Colt Navy conversion pistols in military-style holsters, and has been known to hide a sawed-off shotgun from a sling he loops over his right shoulder.” He held his right arm in the air and made a circular motion with his left hand to illustrate what he’d just said. “These men are a pair of real bad ’uns, and they probably won’t be all that willing to come back considering the charges again ’em. Look for ‘to fight this time no matter how we approach ’em, and hell, I think we should give ‘whatever they want.”

  “I have no objection to that, Mr. Cecil, or an early morning exit, Marshal Reed. In fact, rather prefer it that way. Like to spend the eve of all my raids on the Nations in the company of my wife. So if you gentlemen would excuse me for now, I will see you in the morning.”

  Tipped my hat and started my exit. Before I could make the boardwalk, heard Barnes say something about having to nickname Carlton Ole Pie Face. They broke into table-banging laughter again, and were still in full hoot when I pulled the door closed.

  Climbed aboard Thunder and headed north on Rogers. Hit Towson just a few blocks south of Reed’s Mercantile. Elizabeth’s father taught her well, and when he died—after Tollman Pike and Crouch Albrect stormed the store and shot him in the eye—she took over the business and turned it into a fabulously successful moneymaker by catering to Fort Smith’s more affluent female shoppers. She visited New York twice a year on buying trips, and always amazed me with her ability to bring back the most desirable fashions of the day.

  The front of the store had been rebuilt according to her specifications. Large false pillars in the Greek style now decorated our façade, and the entire thing had been sloshed with a new coat of white paint. Gave the appearance of substance, like the front was made of marble. The second floor, site of our old apartment, now bustled with women and girls from Fort Smith and Van Buren who had money enough to clothe themselves in much the same manner as their more affluent sisters back East.

  Tied Thunder to the hitch rail I’d used my first day in town. She must have spotted me as soon as I stepped through the door. A flurry of blond-haired motion and sound flew into my arms.